The Two That Remained

by Mauldin, J Fitzpatrick

  The house twisted and splintered down its center, noise like exploding bunches of atomic celery. Ryan wished he could trade a stopped heart for the pain in his chest. The structure quaked, nearly causing the two of them to fly off the roof. Water ran down through their open hoods to soak their arms.

  Emily was slipping through his grip.

  “Dada,” she cried, feet scrabbling on the rain-slick roof tiles. Her pink jellies were worthless here, had no traction. The dirt and oil on her skin slickened as it sloughed away in the heavy shower.

  “Don’t let go,” he told her, trying to keep a grip on her greasy body. The plastic ponchos were not helping. Her chest, then shoulders, then head, squeezed between his arms—her legs now on the other side of the roof line, opposite his flat chest. “No. My God, no. Hold on, baby! Don’t let go!” She took hold of his hair, but her fingers slipped free.

  Her bright eyes were wide with horror. Beneath her, rushing brown waters frothed at the base of the roof’s grade, chewing up trees, garbage, and cars alike.

  The top half of the house was sinking.

  The entire structure rocked as it collided with a red brick home. Emily gripped the summit, screeching madly. Their roof raft spun around until the obstruction was upstream, leaving them dizzy. Ryan used his chin on Emily’s shoulder like a clamp, attempting to pull her close. What was left of the roof shuddered once more, and his feet slipped, leaving him with only one hand of hers to cling to.

  “Emily!” he shouted, desperately attempting to scale the steep grade on his side of the wet roof. All he managed to do was hold his place, treading air. Her face vanished behind the roof line, distance between them reaching critical levels. He couldn’t reach any farther. He had to get higher.

  “Dada! Help. Help, pweese. Help me!”

  “I’m coming, baby!”

  “Pweese, Dada. I’m sorry. Pweese. I’m sorry. Help!”

  Thunder split the air, striking a tree ten feet away from their roof raft, fiery limbs crashing down. The world went white, droplets of rain freezing where they fell. The air smelled of ozone and burnt plastic.

  Ryan’s arm jerked reflexively, nearly going limp. All Emily’s weight was being held up by only three fingers clutched in his wet hand. It didn’t matter how desperately he wanted to save her from the rushing waters, that arm had become weak and frail; even holding a fork had become a challenge some days. He closed his eyes and prayed for help, but it didn’t change a thing.

  Emily slipped from his grasp.

  Her fingers left his hand, and he slid to the bottom of his side of the roof, screaming her name till his voice cracked. Muddy floodwater lapped onto his feet.

  “No!” He scrambled back up the roof, slipping and tripping and skinning his hands. He peered over the summit and saw nothing but rushing brown froth and debris. His lip quivered, eyes swelled. The world became a haze of agony.

  “She can’t be. No. No. No. No! No! No! She can’t!” He collapsed against the roof line and shook, too tired to do anything else. Rain rushed down his poncho, washing away blood and tears.

  There would be no more fighting over crayons. No more playing chase. No more puzzles or fights over when to go to bed. No more dressing up or wearing crowns.

  The only thing he could think to say was, “She never let me finish coloring my picture.”

  The rain slowed. The roof raft bobbed along the frothy flood waters, eventually sticking against a thick copse of sturdy trees. A scratching sound came from the bottom of the roof’s grade. He ignored it. The dog barked twice. Somehow it had survived the ordeal, whereas she had not. He considered kicking it off the roof to its death to see if that might bring his daughter back.

  The scratching sound returned. A limb rubbing against the house.

  ”I’m sorry.”

  “Dada?” Soft words brushed his ear.

  It couldn’t be.

  “Dada?”

  He allowed himself to hope.

  “I climb.”

  He threw his body over the roofline to see his daughter’s nervous face coming closer. “Emily!”

  “I climb!” Her arms and legs were wide, using the crevice where the roof sections met to get back to the top. It was slow going, but she soon climbed high enough that he could take hold of her hand. Blood trickled from her fingers and palms. He leaned to the side and saw a rusty antenna bolted to the roof, just out of sight from the chimney. It had saved her life, catching on her clothes and allowing her to get a grip.

  “I climb, Dada!” Her joy was infectious. “I climb!”

  “You did climb!” He crushed her in his arms and breathed her in. “I’m so proud of you. Don’t let me ever tell you not to climb again.”

  Emily buried her face in his chest for several moments. The roof swayed. The rain slacked. The raging river flowed on.

  “Hey, Emme?”

  She lifted her head and met his eyes.

  “Next time we color, can I have a crayon other than white or yellow? I want to finish my picture.”

  Her brows furrowed as she thought this over. This was serious business. Those crayons were hers. “No, Dada,” she decided, shaking her head.

  “Okay. Good to know.”

  Chapter 54

  From the hood of a waterlogged police car in the emergency lane of the Fardy-Far, Ryan brushed his teeth and spat blood. It was all he’d been able to taste for days, even with the aid of mint toothpaste and mouthwash. The sour, metallic tang of inflamed gums was a sign of problems to come. Ever since the flood, they’d had little food which could cover up such a strong taste. Not to mention, sparing quantities of clean water. Thus, he’d become aware of this growing issue in technicolor. Gum disease did not run in his family. He had always taken care of his teeth. The reason was clear. Missing nutrients in his diet were wreaking havoc on his internal organs.

  The floods had thankfully receded, though taken days, allowing them to make their way out of a backwoods town time had misplaced, and return to the interstate. This gap in time had once more left them without much in way of supplies. Ryan knew that those back ways might have been better for finding goods, more houses and small stores. But at this point, he was terrified of getting lost. The interstate was safer. One straight shot and zero lions.

  “I hungry,” Emily told him from her place sitting cross-legged in the grass. She had a new large-eyed, plush dog in her arms, something they’d found in the farmhouse which had miraculously remained dry. She started to take off her ball cap, and Ryan stayed her hands.

  “No, babe. Keep it on. The sun’s really bright now that it’s not raining.” He adjusted his own cap, and felt for his neck where the skin was turning lobster-like. What he wouldn’t give for some aloe vera.

  “More eat eat?” She got up and started searching the empty saddle bags of the wagon.

  Ryan had been shocked to find that their contraption had survived. It had been hanging onto the roof by only its pull handle, the majority of the saddle bag contents lost. At least the water vessels were still intact. Lillian’s lunchbox was still intact. But the tablet, battery, solar panel, rope lights—none of it worked. The spear was gone. Their last sack of rice, puffy and wet, ruined. Thrown away. There was nothing left to eat. All the Spam was gone. All the pickles were gone. Emily had stuffed the last remaining mushrooms in her mouth that morning.

  He tried with all his might not to focus on his aching stomach. “Come on. Let’s get moving.”

  “But I hungry.”

  “We’ll find something. We’re Sharpes, after all. We don’t give up easy.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “You can. And you will. Come on.”

  She hopped inside the wagon cage, now partially covered with the canvas stained in lion blood, floored with a sleeping bag. The ruined memory foam mattress and sheets had been thrown out. The blue tarp was ripped and useless. The sun was relentless. For weeks it had been overcast, nothing but slate grey and the occasional bright, sunny day. Now, the sun wo
uldn’t retreat, hardly even at night. No matter where they went, it was as if it followed them. Ryan kept to shade as much as possible, solar rays leeching energy from him to further its own nuclear fusion. Or so it felt.

  He took a step and stumbled, loose pants catching on the heel of his shoe. The next car they passed, he shattered a window and stole a belt from the driver. His pants were still too long. He used his knife to cut them into hipster-style Capri jorts. It made the heat a little more bearable, though his fashion sense less.

  “Now, if I could only shave.” He turned to leave and paused. The reflection in the side mirror of the rusted sedan, revealed a thick-bearded, sallow man, with wild hair, and grey t-shirt pocked with holes, that had seen too much sun and too few pork roasts. He sniffed the air for a moment and swore he detected cooking food.

  They pressed on, heading west down a service road parallel the interstate. The road wound like a lazy river, bending every couple of miles. The sun burned hotter. Emily laid down and took a too-tired nap. She’d not been herself the past couple of days. She’d hardly played at all. Hardly protested to anything.

  He lifted his last air horn and pressed. Nothing. He threw it over his shoulder and cursed. A sign for Wal-Mart drew near, close to summoning a grin. He veered towards the old superstore.

  He found the building burned to the ground. Nothing but twisted metal, its valuable merchandise turned to cinders. There was no use going through the wreckage. He scratched his itchy arm and led them away. Lotion would have been nice, too. And toilet paper.

  Beneath the shade of a friendly tree they stopped for a while. When Ryan took off his hat so it could dry, he found several wild hairs that once belonged to him within. Emily didn’t stir. She was fast asleep in the wagon, breathing even, though crackly with congestion. His stomach was turning inside out. He had to do something.

  A few miles further down the road they lucked out, finding a box of pancake mix in a hotel. It felt like a questionable choice for dinner, but the two of them were starving. He cooked, delighted to be out of the sun, making the thinnest pancakes he could muster. They were terrible, flavorless but for a foot-like tang, but settled on their stomachs easy enough.

  Emily made use of the empty halls, exploring. She didn’t go far before turning around and shaking her Daddy. “Where is?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “I want.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She started crying, arms shaking. “I want, Daddy.”

  The following day they continued, having clearly seen lights in the dead of night. Emily was still not interested in playing. She wasn’t interested in doing much more than sleeping. Ryan had tried to tickle her or play chase, but all she wanted was to sit in one place and talk to her dolls. He just wanted to sleep. It was almost noon before the two of them roused from their hotel room.

  Housekeeping had not come knocking.

  They veered off the interstate, searching homes they could see from the road. These ranch-style, country dwellings had been stripped of all non-perishables, left dusty, but clean. No skeletons were inside. Short mounds of dirt outside. A burned-out fire pit sat deserted in a clearing. Ryan stuck his fingers in the ashes and sniffed; they were fresh, not warm, but fresh.

  “Hello?” Ryan shouted into the swaying trees. “Is anyone there?” He turned, listening. A flock of blackbirds passed overhead. A squirrel dropped its nut. A fly landed on his ear.

  There was no human response.

  “Dada.”

  “Yeah, Emme?”

  “Where the horsey gone?”

  “What horsey?”

  “My animals. Where the horsey gone?”

  “I don’t know, baby.” His eyes trailed back to Lillian’s lunch box hanging from the wagon.

  “I hungry. More pancakes.”

  “We’re out.”

  “Pickle!” she screamed.

  “We don’t have those either.”

  “I can’t.” She lowered her head. “I can’t.”

  His breath blew out, “Me either.”

  The bloody canvas, painted with the albino lion’s life, was starting to stink. Ryan was worried it would attract animals, but was yet to find a replacement.

  That night, they heard wolves calling to one another.

  The following day they stopped off at a park and tried to play for a little while. Ryan had a nice conversation with an amiable missus that was perhaps a bit too bony for his taste. Lilian had gotten only mildly upset at his flirting.

  He threw his log book away, its records caroming into a ditch beneath a bridge. The lights were drawing no closer, their stomachs no fuller.

  A day passed without a bite to eat between them. Emily was could hardly stand. Somehow, some way, Ryan had to be strong and push on. He tried not to focus his thoughts on food but couldn’t help it. It returned to his mind over and over, like a plague.

  He had once thought that sex was the strongest driving force in a man’s life. He’d dreamt of exploring Lillian’s body while in class, noting in his mind all the beautiful curves and features of her intoxicating landscape. At night, he had missed out on sleep to get lost in her wonderland of scent and sensation, never satisfied, always content. But now, he found that hunger was so much stronger. Hunger was so much more dangerous. Without the energy to even conjure a boner, even if facing the most beautiful and healthy woman in the world, he knew he could find the reserves to plunge his knife into someone, something, for a hot meal.

  His body was holding back a last little push for just the right moment. A little turbo charge, a little nitrous, to throw into the engine at the nick of time and close the gap between desire and goal.

  “Tonight I’m gonna eat,” he told himself, wagon rolling behind him. “Whatever meat I can get my hands on—I—am—going—to—eat. With that tender flesh I’ll make burgers with lettuce and tomatoes on Kaiser rolls, I’ll make pot roast with mashed potatoes and brown gravy, I’ll make lemon pepper tenderloins to pair with steamed broccoli or asparagus, and jerky, plenty of salty, teriyaki flavored jerky. I’ll make stroganoff with soft noodles, and pot pies filled with peas and carrots. I’ll put Mongolian sauce all over it, serve atop fried rice garnished with green onions. I’ll make sausage pizza in a brick oven with Provel cheese, bar-b-que ribs with baked beans and a cold beer…”

  They pulled off the interstate into a disheveled neighborhood. The wagon banged as it rolled over debris. Emily called up at him, “Hey,” with an annoyed tone. The ride was not very smooth.

  “...with a burgundy wine reduction and risotto. Seared red meat with roasted artichoke covered in garlic and butter. Deep fried chops in breadcrumbs with egg wash, seasoned with cracked pepper and bay. Mexican cornbread casserole with red and green peppers, onions and creamed corn. Tender veal with two eggs—sunny side up, meat so tender blood runs onto my toast. Oh yes, raw meat.” His voice took on an edge. “Raw foreign foods, tartar and carpaccio and gored gored and crudos and kibbeh nayeh and kitfo and tiger meat and mettwurst and koi soi and gyu tataki and carne apache. I’ll even take just the blood, bread soaked in iron rich, black blood, tongue dancing with delicious, metallic madness. I need it now. Meat, warm meat! Now! I’ll eat anything.” He turned around to check on Emily. “That’s right. I’ll eat anything.” His legs wobbled, visions of steaming flesh swirled in his head. The languid muscles in his stomach roared to life.

  The wagon came to a halt at the corner of two empty streets. All the cars had been moved out of the way like Moses parting the Red Sea, husks now parked on sidewalks in an orderly fashion. A pharmacy was on the left with a massive, red spray painted X upon its sliding glass doors. On the right, a set of crooked storefronts loomed, their aquiline awnings bending, windows so dirty it was impossible to see inside.

  A breath was taken in.

  Two blocks down at the traffic light, a deer was chewing on grass sprouting through broken sidewalks. Ryan was too excited to move. His stomach screamed at him, reminding him of a day they
cooked a lion on an open fire. It seemed so long ago.

  “Emily,” he whispered. “Stay in the wagon. I’m gonna set the break.” He reached in his belt for the pistol. Two rounds left. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Right back?” she asked, sounding sad, her face gaunt and sallow.

  “Yeah. Right back. I promise.” He flipped the latch on the cage so she couldn’t get out.

  “Promise,” she repeated, eyes filled with understanding. “Okay. Promise.” This was what the cage was for. This was why he’d lugged it through stampede, forest, and flood; she would be safe.

  He nodded and tiptoed around a building made of chipped bricks. The plan in his head relied heavily on not being seen or noticed. He knew he was a bad shot, and the pistol had poor range. It had taken almost the entire clip to finish off Cerberus from just a couple feet away. He slipped into the alley, hoping it dropped out on the opposite end where the deer was grazing. Sniffing his tattered shirt and arm pits, he realized he stank worse than a putrefied animal. When was the last time they’d taken baths? Before the flood? He weaved around garbage, climbed over a dumpster and spilled out onto the sidewalk again. The deer, a smallish doe with tan fur and white spots, was just a few feet to his left. The building had done well to keep his powerful scent from finding its olfactory senses.

  “Okay,” he mumbled, and then sang in his head. He went through several songs: “Everybody Wants to be a Cat” from Aristocats, “Be Prepared” from The Lion King, and strangely, “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. None of those worked. He finally settled on “Topsy Turvy” from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. That was his life now. His trembling hands steadied. This was his one chance, his last boost of energy before starvation. He had to make it worthwhile.

  The deer continued to eat, facing the opposite direction, gap between them closing. He edged a step closer, back against the store, pistol extended.