The Two That Remained

by Mauldin, J Fitzpatrick

  Ryan shook his head. It was all too much.

  This was the most alone he’d felt since just after the Event. It took everything in him not to break down and quit. He was a failure to both Emily and Lillian. He should have stayed home with her, they would have been fine. Whatever, or whoever, had caused this death didn’t seem to be culling the herd of humanity any longer. They could have lived for years in comfort and safety.

  As night began to fall, Ryan felt increasingly defeated. All the distance he’d traveled, and yet it seemed as if he were no closer to his goal. He persistently wished for a tall building, or a tree he felt comfortable climbing, so that he could get a better view; see the light again. His direction was lost.

  Ryan took a seat upon the hood of a late model, red Porsche 911 R, waiting for the sky to turn black. On any other day, the owner would have killed him for the dent his ass had left. The colors of dusk filled the western horizon, no change in the usual order. There were few clouds to be seen, none of them ice-cream clouds. He drifted, watching birds vanish, bats come out to play.

  He rubbed a hand across the hood of the Porsche. It was bumpy and cracked, in desperate need of a professional paint job. So much had changed since this vehicle was new. Back then, Ryan would have killed to drive something this nice, to have a career prestigious enough that he could pay for such a thing for purely entertainment reasons. Cars like this were never practical, after all. It’s not as if a car seat and groceries fit in the back. When the car was new, he would have envied the man that drove it, seen him as a role model to look up to; someone who had stayed focused on their goals and dreams, forsaking all others to get what they wanted out of life. Now, he pitied him. The Porsche owner had probably died without any deep intimacy, without knowing the love of a child, or security of a place that he could truly call home. Always wheels up, always traveling, working out the next big deal, his family life left in the dust.

  This was the story Ryan imagined from what he saw. A cleaned out car. Perfectly kept leather seats. No food or drink inside, a platinum Rolex in the glove box, resting beside a hand-stitched set of Italian leather driving gloves. Briefcase in the passenger seat, wallet on top with an Amex Black Card poking from the side. He wasn’t sure why, but Ryan pocketed the pair of diamond cufflinks he found sitting on the floor.

  About the time he started debating if he should make camp in the Suburban across the road, sleep for a few minutes, a rail of white light appeared in the south, shooting into the remnants of dusk.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  “Ambient light sensor,” he mumbled. “That’s it. It only comes on at night.” To be sure that people could see it.

  He took off down the street at a dead run, fumbling in the dark for the ragged knife and empty pistol. The light intensified, its bulbs warming up. A beacon to light the way. Whoever these people were, they wanted others to find this place like he had. They had called him here, ready to make a meal of him and his daughter; and how many others? What a clever plan. Lure wayward survivors to their death with a glimpse of hope. Moths to a flame.

  Even in the fading daylight, he could see a tiny structure ahead, blocking the beacon’s source. It had no fences or outside walls. Ryan kept to the trees for cover and tiptoed one foot over the next, careful not to make too much noise in the underbrush.

  “You’re mine, bastard.” He gripped the dagger tighter.

  From inside the small wooden building, no more than a shed off the highway, he could hear the drone of low music. He slipped down the side of the building, smelling fresh paint and cut grass. He stuck his head around the corner, peered up front, and found the source of light.

  Anchored in a gravel parking lot, was a set of event spotlights. They were wired to both a generator, which wasn’t running, as well as a series of batteries connected to rooftop solar panels. The space between him and the spotlight was empty—no cars, no skeletons, no trash. It was clean and well-maintained, gravel chips level.

  He ducked beneath the edge of the powerful light column spilling off the spot, keeping to shadows, and climbed into a low window on the side of the building. The toe of his boot almost bumped an empty aluminum can on the floor, forcing him to inhale sharply. He lowered himself and peered around the room.

  There were overhead lights, white LED bulbs, bright but not blinding, on simple corded sockets, no fixtures. The music, coming from a handheld radio which hung on a nylon cord, was a style he didn’t recognize; folkish and organic, twelve string guitar with leather drums and woodwinds. He had a feeling that the musicians were trying to put their listeners at ease with this song. He was not in a state to appreciate it.

  He stood upright, glancing over his shoulder to be sure someone wasn’t just outside the window. He pulled the front door of the tiny house closed. Again, he was alone.

  Hand-painted posters were tacked on the otherwise unfinished walls, saying things like, “Come home to us” and “We love you,” sublime scenes surrounding the words. In one corner, in bold letters, “MAP,” was drawn above a sadly vacant location bordered by four pushpins. A tag of paper was left behind on one of the pins, a corner piece with the letter A and the number one bound within thick lines.

  “Someone took the map to the settlement.” He pivoted around, inspecting the rest. The tiny structure smelled of sawdust and wood sealer. He ran a palm across the wall, fine splinters poking into his callouses. “Freshly cut wood,” he commented. The cannibals had gone to a lot of trouble for this.

  On a set of handmade, unsanded shelves, gleamed a plentiful supply of canned foods with no brand, contents written in black marker; jars of pickled vegetables, dried meats and jugs of clear water. There was even a medical kit full of drugs and bandages. Off to the side of the main room, only three strides across, was a private bedroom with two beds, soft mattresses, and clean sheets. It was looking more and more like a micro-hotel than a trap. The lavender candles beside the window only served to make this idea more plausible.

  It was all for show, Ryan told himself, to engender a false sense of security in travelers. This was a trap, and he had fallen for it. He was inside the jaws, stepping down on the trigger plate, just like the albino lion.

  He carefully went outside and walked the perimeter, weapon out, searching for an ambush. They had to be in the woods waiting on him. There was nothing else close by, no other houses, no vehicles. The building stood alone at the edge of nature retaking the world, having only trees and squirrels and birds as community.

  Out front, Ryan located a wooden sign framed by the occlusive luminance spilling from off the spotlight. It read: “Welcome To The East End Waystation.”

  He sagged onto the gravel lot and began to cry. Emily wasn’t here.

  Chapter 57

  For three miserably hot days, and three steamy nights, Ryan Sharpe staggered west along an unnamed highway. Signs of his daughter were not found. Signs of himself were fading. Though he had plenty of salted meat and pickled vegetables in his backpack, he did not eat. Food left by cannibals tasted like poison to him. Surely it was their intent to fatten him up.

  Though he had fresh water and cold bourbon, he drank only when it was necessary to swallow muscle relaxers or pain pills. The muscles of his right arm were so stiff he could hardly manage to carry the cloth-wrapped dagger in his hand. It had lived there ever since the waystation, hungry for blood like the demon pistol in St. Louis. A small part of him hoped each time he ate these dulling, calorie-free, narcotic meals, that his heart might just stop. That would be the easiest way to rejoin his wife and daughter. Keep it simple, stupid; Fedex yourself direct into their embrace.

  Ryan had trouble adjusting his eyes as he tripped onto a new stretch of pavement near dawn. The section of cracked highway before him, once again clear of vehicles and debris, was marked in a garish rainbow of color, of pastel blues and pinks, peach and yellow, green and orange and violet and ivory. He bent down to read the messages upon it, made in both chalk and spray paint. There wer
e pictures of smiley faces and houses, of cars and crude maps, of airplanes and animals and places he didn’t recognize; but these were the least of the messages. Between each image, each seemingly artistic depiction of a peaceful world in harmony, were endless lines of six to twelve-inch high names. Names by the hundreds, the thousands, the millions. Names to the horizon.

  ...John Kevin and Jane Beryl Walker. Sissy H. Lynch. Angela Emily Brown. Alexander F. Conway. Tanisha White. P & S. Terrance White. Little J. Eli Tobias Grant. Kimberly Deloris Hutton. Kate G. & Keith M. Fowler. Kevin “Rat tail” McCormick. Alex D. Bedwell. Mr. Martin Jones. Bigboy. Tommy...

  He stepped over them, losing count after less than a quarter mile, somewhere near six hundred. There were just too many. The handwriting changed as often as the names, as if an army of graffiti artist had copied them from the phone book, recording the randomized contents onto pavement. Miles crawled by. Images of flowers and people holding hands blocked his path.

  “It’s all a lie,” he mumbled. “The man repeated it again and again. Eat her. Eat her. There is no peace. They’re cannibals, driven mad by this world, and these are the names of their victims, stretching out in a parade of death for endless miles. When the world fell apart, it was just too much, and so they cracked. Not like me, no no no. Not like me. I’m still here.” He tapped his temple. “Still here.”

  Something caught his attention, a distant voice humming. A grin split his face. The dagger lifted in his hand.

  “I’m going to take care of this, Lillian.” The weight of her vessel pushed against his shoulders through the backpack. “I’m going to take care of this for good.”

  Working his way through the trees, he came upon a man crouched by a shallow creek. The man had dark skin, dressed in pale clothes, and was wearing sandals. He was sifting something in a pan beside bushes of beautiful, white roses. Every so often he would raise his head and look around, unaware of Ryan’s approach. The white hair of his face and beard, the red dot between his eyes, confirmed all that Ryan needed to know.

  Mr. Ryan Sharpe removed the turquoise backpack and snuck up on the man, pistol in his left hand, knife in his right. The stiffness in his arm resisted any complex actions. He found a place behind a thick tree and paused. The man looked up, head cocked, thinking he’d heard something. His head went back down a moment later. The humming resumed. Ryan edged closer.

  Just three strides ahead was the man that had taken his daughter away. The cannibal. He would pay in the quickest way possible, no time for torture. Ryan unwrapped the knife, stepped free from cover, and came up behind the man, raising its wicked blade. The man was bent over, back of his bare neck revealed. All Ryan had to do was bring it down. Songs spun in his head, revolving and resolving into the words of “Painting the Roses Red” from Alice in Wonderland. The man bent over the roses was within striking distance. Ryan had but to thrust his dagger downward.

  “Not pink, not green, not aquamarine…”

  As Ryan forced the knife towards bare flesh, his shoulder tensed. Only a few inches from its target, his muscles locked up.

  “Sanjay, look out!” a woman shouted from behind them.

  The man spun around and slapped at Ryan. In his weakened state, Ryan tumbled to the ground, the two of them struggling for the knife. The gun vanished into the woods. The wicked blade came within inches of Ryan’s eyes as they rolled down a leafy hillside, roots and rocks digging into his back and sides. As luck would have it, though, Ryan ended up on top, the knife still in his hand. The man resisted, clawing at Ryan’s arms hard enough to draw blood. Ryan felt nothing but blind rage. He laid the knife against the neck of the stunned old man, his long beard the only thing between a sharpened blade and skin.

  Ryan decided he would give the man one last chance.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, sliding to the side until he was around the back of the man, holding the blade firm against the Adam’s apple. “Where is she? Did you eat her? Was she tasty? Do you like venison? That’s it, you like it tender.”

  “Oh, no,” the man croaked. “I would not dare eat someone.”

  “You took her, damn it! You took her! My sweet little Emily. You shouted again and again, ‘Eat her, eat her, all you do. Eat her!’ Fucking eat her! You’re a madman.”

  “Oh no. Oh no. Not me.” The man’s voice was incongruously timid.

  “Do you know what I’ve done to this blade? It was just another run-of-the-mill hunting knife you’d purchase at any sporting goods store. A weapon perfect for putting down wild game or gutting a fish with ease. But it’s more than that now. Isn’t that right? This isn’t a razor-sharp weapon any longer, no no. It’s a ragged, poisoned blade, an instrument of slow torture. You see, I had to spend those sleepless nights doing something.”

  “Please don’t hurt—”

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, wirehead. I’m going to introduce you—”

  “No. No. Please. I—“

  “—to this weapon soon enough. It won’t merely cut you open in a clean line, but rip the skin in two, each layer its own holiday of agony.” Everything outside Ryan’s vision was turning red and blurry. His throat was closing up. “The blade’s been dipped in rat poison and sharpened with lead and oil. It’s been bent and twisted till there’s hardly an edge, just a series of claws and hooks following in a single line.”

  “I am not afraid to die.” The man was weeping. “But I do not want to die a painful death.”

  “Oh, you don’t? Well, because I’m a good, sensible guy, I’ll give you one last chance to do the right thing. Give me my daughter! Now!” He shouted the words in the man’s ear, making the elder’s knees buckle.

  “Calm down.” The woman who’d shouted the warning came closer, her stature tall, presence confused. She dusted off her hands on her jeans and lifted her open palms high. She was young. Beautiful. A lie. “Nobody wants to hurt anyone. Please sir, put down the knife. Sanjay is a man of peace, I promise that.”

  “Why would I do that?” Ryan barked. “All you’re going to do is eat me next. I see the blood troughs over there.” He nodded in the direction of a set of white tubs sitting beside the creek. “I’m not going to be your dinner, not without avenging her first. The both of you need to pay for what you did.”

  “Blood troughs?” The woman shook her head. “And who? Do what to who? Who are you talking about?” Her dark gaze regarded him, flicking between the weapon and his footing. She let out a breath and ran fingers through her hair. Her wide eyes lingered on his. “Holy shit. Wait, wait, this is too weird.” She turned around and cupped her hands to yell. “Jamie! Come here, right now!”

  A healthy boy with sun-ripened skin in overalls no more than ten years old appeared at the top of the hill, face covered in grease. “Ma’am?”

  “Go get the girl.”

  “What? What girl?”

  Ryan’s knife hand shook. His legs were becoming just as weak as the man he was holding hostage. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. He needed to strike soon or lose his chance. Damn the consequences.

  “The, you know,” the woman swallowed, “the one Sanjay came back with.”

  “The ice cream clouds kid?” the boy asked, then suddenly noticed Ryan and Sanjay locked in their deadly position. “Oh, of course. I’ll be right back! Don’t anyone move!”

  “Go! Go, get her!”

  The boy scurried off, kicking dust up in his wake.

  “Ice cream clouds?” Ryan considered. Sanjay wiggled under his grip. The man wasn’t nearly as strong as he’d seemed from a distance, just like the albino lion. Sanjay had merely had surprise on his side beforehand. Now that Ryan was holding him, he could feel he was light, aged and frail. “That’s her, my Emmy. You better not have laid a hand on her.”

  “She’s fine, sir,” the woman supplied.

  “Yes, indeed, she is just fine,” Sanjay added, nervous chuckles permeating his words.

  “Shut up!”

  “Okay.” He lowered his glistening head.


  The woman took a step closer, curiosity growing in the features of her face. Ryan tensed under her gaze. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “My what?”

  “Your name. That’s not a hard question, is it? We don’t ask it as much as we used to—most of us already know each other—but you still have a name, right?”

  “No. No. I see what you’re trying to do here. Ahh, I see. You think you’re clever. You’re trying to get me to lower my guard, right? Yeah, that’s what this is about. Get him to let go, just enough, that the cannibal here can knock me flat.”

  “Cannibal?” Sanjay gasped. His head pivoted, neck pressing against the tension of the blade. His response was indignant, “Wherever would you get that idea, heathen? Cannibal! I don’t even eat meat.”

  The woman stepped closer.

  “Back off,” Ryan growled, muscles tensing. It’s not hard Ryan, just pull back. End this fucker’s life. It’s what Lillian would have wanted. She was willing to carry that guilt, why not you? Emily is dead, I took too long, they’re just stringing you along. They’re liars.

  “How about I stay right here,” the woman responded, lowering to her haunches. “I ask your name only because you look familiar, nothing else. I feel like we’ve met. Maybe on the road? Maybe up near Union? No? Is this your backpack?” She stood and recovered it. A puzzled look appeared on her face as she flipped the turquoise pack over. “It can’t be. No, this is too weird. I can’t even.”

  Jaime returned with Emily in his arms. “Hey, Mrs. Ruth, here she is. Do I need to...”

  Ruth shot up the hill and recovered Emily, bringing her down to Ryan. “Go home, Jamie. Grab a slice of cake.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He paused, eyes darting from person to person. “Wait, you sure?”

  “Go home, or I’ll string you up by your toe nails!”

  “Okay, okay.” He scampered off. “I miss all the good stuff,” he mumbled and disappeared.

  At the sight of Emily, unharmed and beaming with life, the knife fell from Ryan’s hand. Sanjay went free. Ryan’s legs collapsed as he fell on his knees, all the fight having evaporated.