Cara’s father gave a sly smile. “Really? I knew many MP’s in the service that had hopes of law enforcement when they got out.”
Bryant nodded. “Yes sir, I considered that but decided that a degree and some experience in a local police department after I graduate would serve me best. Then I could apply for U.S. Marshall or maybe ATF.”
Cara again tried to divert attention. “The food is cooling off. Who wants a piece of original recipe?” The barrage of questions made her nervous. Sooner or later, her boyfriend’s luck would expire and he would say the wrong thing.
“Just pick out the pieces that you want and I’ll take what’s left.” Bryant dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Jean interrupted. “No, no. You are our guest. You get the first choice.”
Bryant shook his head. “I’m not picky. Besides, my mama told me when you’re in someone else’s house, behave as if they were a guest in yours.”
Jean leaned in conspiratorially. “Are all Southerners this polite?”
Bryant laughed. “Sadly, no. It’s like anywhere else. Some people are and some aren’t.” His statement killed the conversation, and for the next few minutes, everyone ate in silence.
Finally, David leaned back and sighed. “I’m full.” Jean had long since dropped her plastic spork and left the remainder of mashed potatoes alone. Cara nervously cracked her knuckles, waiting for the conversation to resume.
David looked over at Jean and gave a secretive smile. Then he turned to Bryant. “So meeting the parents has been stressful enough and I know kids don’t really enjoy hanging out with old people. Why don’t you go out and have some fun?”
Cara almost fainted in shock. Before she found words enough to speak, Bryant cut in. “Sir, if it’s all the same to you, we can stay a little longer.”
“No, I insist. Go on.” The father waved them on. “Jean and I will be fine.”
Bryant stood and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” Then he shifted his attention to the mother. “It has been a pleasure ma’am.”
Cara stood and followed her boyfriend as he walked back toward the front door. She felt like the night had been too successful to be authentic. She lingered at the entrance to the kitchen and turned around to face her parents.
“Thank you.” She simply stated as she faced the two adults. David just nodded, a slight and strange smile playing on his lips. Jean gave a quiet laugh and asked, “For what?” Cara’s face flushed and she fled down the hall taking long strides to catch up to Bryant. It was just one of those things she could not bring herself to vocalize.
At the table, both parents waited for the sound of a closing door. Then David stood up and walked over to the counter. “How about a glass of wine? I know it doesn’t compliment fried chicken but I was going to pour myself a glass of Merlot.”
Jean paused. She had not seen her husband in such a buoyant mood in years. “Sure, I’ll indulge.”
David happily poured two crystal flutes with the dark liquid. He gingerly extended a glass to her and spoke almost wistfully. “I’m glad we moved here.” He took a sip, savoring the taste. “The work is easier, the cost of living is less, and best of all, our daughter is acting like a well adjusted individual.”
“Why do you think she said ‘thank you’?” Jean asked, still pondering the statement earlier.
“For not fighting with each other?” He shrugged. “For not telling her we don’t approve of her man?” He guessed again. “Hell, it could be because we didn’t whip out baby pictures.”
He looked into the darkened living room. “You want to see if anything’s on?” Jean nodded and they both curled up on the couch drinking wine and feeling the stirrings of long dormant emotions.
DUSK
Out in the country a few miles from Bryant’s trailer, a pickup truck traveling twenty miles over the speed limit slid off the road and onto a soft shoulder. The sudden grip of the loose soil caused the steering wheel to jerk. The young man driving overcompensated and the vehicle crossed the opposite lane, bouncing as the truck hit a small dip. Both occupants screamed while one tried to regain control of the wheel. The driver could have possibly hit the brakes and saved them both, but in his panic he missed the pedal. The young man had accidentally slammed his foot onto the gas, creating a burst of speed and the automobile collided with a tree on the edge of an open pasture.
In the unfolding chain of events, the passenger was the only one wearing a seat-belt. The girl, caught by the fabric strap across her chest, still threw out her arms to prevent hitting the dashboard. The crumpling front end of the truck met her outstretched arms, snapping one of them. The bone broke through the skin in a compound fracture. The glove compartment exploded open spilling contents around the girl’s legs. Pages from the destroyed owner’s manual flapped around her, slowly drifting to the floorboards as the vehicle came to rest.
Mercifully, the boy died while in mid-air after shattering the windshield with his body. He landed on the short grass like a doll that has been haphazardly tossed onto the ground. Arms and legs twisted around at (what appeared to be, at best) uncomfortable angles. His eyes did not close. The shock of dying suddenly left them wide and staring. The last thing he saw was the oncoming glass.
The girl almost returned to consciousness before expiring but never quite made it. Her eyes fluttered, and then stopped. Like a drowning person almost breaking the surface of water but instead taking a lungful of liquid, she went under for the last time.
The machinery under the hood caught fire and slowly burned for the next hour. The flames never became too greedy and the truck never exploded. Metal became blistering hot and the cheap plastic interior peeled away. When the vehicle was later discovered, most of it was intact.
***
Upon entering his trailer, Bryant walked over to the couch and switched on the lamp sitting on a modest end table. He turned to gauge his girlfriend’s next move. Instead of talking to him or thanking him for impressing her parents, she crossed the room and gave him a quick peck on the lips. He felt her touch his fingertips with her own and then interlace them. The feminine hand steadily pulled him forward as she walked toward the bedroom. To Bryant, the entire proceeding unfolded like a dream: surreal yet all his senses told him that it was happening.
As they entered the darkened chamber, she whispered, “No lights.” Then she placed his hand on the round soft bud of her breast. He felt it through the fabric of her shirt but it was still heaven to him. Being so inexperienced, he was unsure of how vigorously to massage. Cara, also a virgin, had no idea what to expect and was disappointed in the lack of sensation.
“You can do that a little harder.” She urged.
“I’m sorry.” Bryant mumbled.
“Don’t apologize.” She quickly added and kissed him again.
Both hearts beat rapidly as he finally pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. For a brief moment, she felt exposed and self-conscious. She wanted to lift her arms and cover her breasts but she resisted the temptation and forced herself to look at Bryant. Her motivation was a mixture of curiosity about his reaction and her urge to not show weakness or hesitation. She need not have worried. His expression was of joyous, silent appraisement. His eyes roved over her, taking in her every nuance of her body.
The idea of him enjoying her exposed skin affected her in a way that she was not prepared for. She immediately pulled the bottom of his shirt up, showing a sudden aggressiveness neither of them expected.
Warm skin pressed against warm skin as they both stepped forward into a clumsy kiss. Warm, wet lips locked together with too much force. The boy could not even wedge his tongue in for a French kiss. Without warning, she disengaged and fell back onto his unmade bed. Bryant, momentarily off guard, reached out to catch her, but her hand locked around his wrist, pulling him down on top of her. She wriggled her body on top of the twisted and tangled flat sheet. He kissed the soft skin of her neck and then the hard collarbone. His mouth gl
ided over her breasts, stopping to suck on each firm nipple. Blood pounded in his ears, but he thought he had heard a faint gasp of pleasure. His fingers quickly fumbled with the button at the waist of her jeans. He pinched the tab on her zipper with his index finger and thumb, hearing the unmistakable sound of interlocking teeth slipping apart. To Bryant’s lust driven teenage mind, that sound was the sound of the gates to paradise. He stood up and pulled her pants off one leg at a time. Repeating his earlier action with the shirt, he tossed the jeans into a corner.
Despite being new to the world of physical pleasure, Cara found that she knew what to do. She closed her eyes and gave him access to her body. Her lover watched as her thighs yawned awake. He slipped his fingers into her moist folds, getting lost. He knew that there was a hole there somewhere, but damn it, he seemed to only find endless slick skin. Finally, he encountered what he sought and slid one finger in. He encountered some brief resistance, probably her hymen. After a few moments of slowly teasing her, he knelt down on the floor and placed his chin on the mattress in front of her exposed pelvis. He experimentally probed with his tongue, being hit with a strong, salty (but not unpleasant) taste. He could see himself growing to relish that musk, greedily lapping up every drop of her sex. As he experimented with oral delights, her fingers found their way into his hair urging him to continue. Her insistence turned him on to an even higher degree and he fearfully wondered how long he could hold out before viciously plunging himself inside her. His brain became a febrile, lust driven organ incapable of controlling the situation
Before long, he had prepared for penetration. Bryant stood and carefully aimed his swollen organ. As he slipped inside her, he gasped in awe. The sensation was so incredible, that he lost all ability at coherent thought. As he eased his full length into her, he knew that he would not be able to maintain control. In fact, as he thought this, he began thrusting wildly with no expectation about how long his virgin body could keep from exploding into her. Within two minutes, he had finished. Panting and dizzy from the rush, he hovered above her wondering how it could already be over, and upset at his lack of stamina. But with surprise and relish, he found that the penis of an eighteen-year-old boy refuses to lie down after the first try. He smiled and began again with slower strokes.
Cara held onto Bryant as they rhythmically moved in his tangled sheets. He clenched his fist grabbing a handful of a pillow in the process. His eyes closed in an intense squint and his mouth hung open in a silent moan. Cara’s fingernails dug into the skin of his back, as she convulsed from ecstasy. They had reached orgasm together. Bryant thought about that fact and wondered if that was a sign of true love, but adults know that the occurrence is a matter of timing and signifies nothing except good sex.
The youth debated rolling off of her but decided that he just wanted to look at her a little longer. A beam of moonlight illuminated her face covered with the sheen of sweat. She looked satisfied, and it had only taken Bryant two tries. Then he thanked his penis for maintaining its stiffness and his flood of hormones that gave him another chance.
Despite the complacency he suddenly felt, Bryant also needed a drink. His throat felt coarse like sandpaper and his mouth developed a sticky film of saliva. He rolled off the mattress and stood up, not bothering to dress. He felt empowered, masculine, and massive; he would not hide his body. As he walked away from the bed, the chill of the cooling evening air and the evaporating sweat caused him to shiver. In his modest kitchen, bathed in the glow of the refrigerator, he called out “Would you like some tea?” His lover answered in the affirmative and he pulled a glass from the cabinet, and then began pouring.
Cara waited for him to return, not wanting to tell him that she was about to break her curfew. Quietly, she decided that being a few minutes late wouldn’t hurt her. She watched him approach, each hand occupied with a glass full of a liquid, which almost appeared black in the faint lighting. She gratefully reached out for the tea and whispered “Thank you.” He leaned in and kissed her after she finished her first sip. She could see the star-struck look in his eyes. They gleamed in a way that she had never seen directed at her. She took another sip of her tea, not knowing that she sent the same look back.
***
Martin’s house, like many in the county, sat on a piece of land outside the city limits and amid the dense Alabama forest. Flanking the property was a Baptist church that Martin did not attend. Everyone he knew attended the First Baptist Church, so he wanted to also but his Catholic parents would not let him. Besides, only old people went to the church beside his house. He really could not even remember the name. Despite the fact that he could see it from his window, the church was a non-entity to him.
Tonight, Martin felt bored and unpopular. Both were true, and though he felt that way most of the time, at the moment the feeling overpowered him. His mind replayed the images of smiling people on the strip: clumps of friends just talking, girls flirting with a nearby cute guy. Martin felt such a hollow ache, that his dignity (which refused to let him force his company on those that did not want him around) cracked and shattered under the constant pressure. He would drive to town tonight. Maybe he could find someone to hang out with on that stretch of asphalt.
Main Street, from the railroad tracks to the First Baptist Church parking lot, was known as “the strip”. The majority of athletes, preps, skanks, and stoners all parked their vehicles there or just drove repeatedly up and down that half-mile of road.
He could go out. His parent’s were out of town on an anniversary weekend alone. He wouldn’t have to worry about a curfew. Sure, he could hang out.
Martin knew that he would not be welcome except by someone who wanted to use him for the money he undoubtedly had. They would overlook his lack of social graces because he would help them. He needed company and everyone knows what they say about a friend in need. As he dressed, he glanced out the window but saw nothing. He squirted on some cologne and walked out of his room, heading toward his destiny. If he had not been so lost in his own thoughts, he might have noticed movement in the church.
***
Brother Mark Willis walked around the narrow halls of his church one last time before deciding to close the doors and go home. Zig-zagging between pews, he checked each one for hymnals and a few cheap copies of a bible. Most of the member of his congregation brought their own more ornate books, but the church supplied a few for visitors.
Brother Mark stepped out of the sanctuary to see a hobbling, elderly woman. At first he didn’t notice her, but she seemed disoriented and aimless as she drifted into his field of vision. Suddenly she changed direction, shuffling toward him in an unnatural silence. Mark squinted trying to bring her into focus in the low light.
“Miss Abernathy?” The preacher queried. “Are you okay? Last I heard, you were bed-ridden.” He looked more closely. Even without sunlight, he could tell that her skin was an unhealthy color. The woman held her arthritic fingers out like claws. The gesture resembled a bizarre entreaty for help.
Mark could almost hear her say, “I beseech you . . .” Of course that was foolish. She wasn’t speaking. Mark thought of the expression “quiet as the grave” which had randomly popped into his head. He stepped closer. “Do you need some help?”
Without warning, she lunged at him. Her nails cut into the flesh on his arm leaving long but shallow scratches. He cried out first in pain, then in horror at her actions. She tried to bite into the arm that she held in her grip, but years ago she had been fitted for dentures, which now sat beside her bed in a clear plastic cup. All that she could do was gum the soft flesh of his forearm. She energetically ran her lips and tongue over his quivering skin causing him to feel sick and violated. He broke her grip, instinctively jerking his arm back.
“What is wrong with you?” He screamed incredulously.
She lunged again, letting out a low hiss. The preacher, though overweight, deftly stepped back causing the elderly woman to miss. Brother Willis then lost his composure. “Jesus Christ,
you crazy old bat!” With his injured arm, he threw a punch that knocked the old woman down the front steps of the church. Her body tumbled end over end before smacking the packed earth. His ear caught a sickening crack as her hip shattered. Totally oblivious to the pain, she scrambled up the steps using all of her limbs like a scurrying animal or some large, crawling spider. The preacher grabbed the heavy, wooden door and slammed it shut as the widow Abernathy tried to cross the threshold. Her head collided with the solid oak barrier and she collapsed.
Brother Willis heard the thump and then silence. Hesitantly, he reached out (hands shaking) and cracked the door open. The renewed attack that he anticipated never came. A limp body with a fractured skull lay crumpled at the foot of the church door. Miss Abernathy was most definitely dead.
In a small voice, Mark spoke. “Uh-oh.”
***
Cara watched Bryant slide on his jeans. He tried not to look at her pouting expression as she whined. “I can be late getting home.”
He smiled at her in a boyish way that she had come to love. “I want to stay on your parents’ good side. That includes following your curfew.” He buttoned his pants and then searched for his shirt amidst the debris of their passion.
Cara acquiesced, her voice full of disappointment. “Okay, help me find my clothes.” She climbed off of the warm, safe bed and walked over to him. The young girl still radiated the fulfilled post-sex glow as she pulled Bryant close and kissed him again.
He gave a small laugh and said, “We’re never going to get you home if you keep this up.”
Within minutes, Bryant had gotten them both dressed (somehow Cara’s panties had found their way under the bed) and had unlocked the passenger door for her. He held it open like a chauffeur and allowed the lovely lady to enter. However this was no limo. The brown pickup showed signs of rust and neglect, as neither mother nor son had the money to keep it in decent condition. Cara called the truck quaint when she first saw it, though that was a euphemism for “redneck”.
Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale Page 9