by Jay Smith
Molly listened to the groans and the shuffling outside the door. Blaine had opened the thick curtain over the window but left the light blinds closed. Through them, hazy shadows crossed the window moving toward the door. As the eaters began to pound on the door, Molly collapsed and passed out.
Part 3
When she woke, it was late afternoon and the first light had given over to the orange-reds of sunset. The door remained shut and locked, the sound of eaters was gone and there were no shadows lurking outside the window. Thirst was her motivator. She crawled to the bathroom, ran the bath and the sink, using a dusty coffee mug to pour water out over herself and across the bathroom floor. The cold water tasted horrible, but it didn’t matter.
“The feel of cool water on my body,” she said, “was like a power-up. I drank too quick and it spilled over me by accident, but I ended up sitting on the toilet next to the sink just pouring cold water over myself, down my back and front…it made no sense. I made puddles on the floor, but…like housekeeping was going to give a shit, right?” She looked herself over in the full length mirror hanging on the door.
“I had black bruises on my thighs, my forearms looked like Popeye. Blood had followed from above my hairline down my back along the trail of cuts and welts Blaine lashed into my back. My face was just a mess. But I was alive. More’n that, Jill – I was effin’ angry. I dipped myself into the tub for a while to cool off and, when I came out, it was a froth of pink and gray. Dirt and blood and…filth. But I felt better. I couldn’t fix my bra. He tore that all to hell, but I found my panties and pants, put them on and warmed myself under all the blankets in the room. I kinda felt like I was back from the dead, but not quite warmed back up yet, y’know? And when I got comfortable, I was sitting under a shaft of light coming from the window and I’d pulled a blanket over from the other bed and wound up with that Bible in my lap. Don’t ask me to explain how. It just was there.”
It was a worn pleather softcover published by the Harmony Hills Company of Red Lion, PA in 1964 making it older than Molly and me cobined. Its binding was barely keeping it together anymore, so someone had the thought to use duct tape across the spine.
Molly was quick to point out that she didn't much believe in God, but she did believe in something greater than the monsters. She was alive, she said, for a reason. The book was as good a place as any to start trying to figure out why.
The outside was genuinely unremarkable. But the inside was different. People had been contributing to it, adding their own notes and circling parts, signing their names and dating it - probably for decades - and putting the book back in the motel drawer. Molly pointed out some notes written into in the margins. The notes read like a registry: “Passing through to Nashville USA, 05/16/1974.” “Praise Jesus, August 1st 1982 .” But there were also some cryptic notes: “The Quick Will Turn Rodent; honest it will!” “Change your ways ‘fore the end of days or I will take your soul.” And occult symbols drawn over the Book of Matthew.
Other entries were desperate and alarming - “Filled the tub with gasoline but could not light the match. July 4th, 1981. Forgive me, Jesus. She wasn’t supposed to die.” “Brent Santini was Here, September 12th, 2001. God Help Us Now.” “Please, God don’t burn him in hellfire. He just never got over the war. Praying for the strength to be a better wife. 12/23/1952.”
She found a two-dollar bill folded up inside the Book of Psalms with Psalm 127 written in felt pen across the back of the bill. Someone thought to clarify the passage of Leviticus condemning homosexuals with angry pen strokes “FAGGOTS .” Someone else thought to use a pink highlighter to draw attention to their favorite Proverbs. It was a collection of humanity “checking in” on the book over many decades in this one room. That patchwork of humanity sang to Molly from beyond death, beyond the end of the modern world, and gave her comfort.
Lying alone and hurt, waiting for the eaters to circle around again, Molly looked through her Bible. She took note of the inscriptions left by people who had stayed in that room and left their notes in the margins asking for help or forgiveness or names of people she'd never know...unique marks in different hands and in different inks, leafs of paper stuck into the book, pages marked by a matchbook cover or a diner coupon. She couldn't find anything in the words of the book itself, but took strength from the expressions of faith and pain and encouragement left by others. It meant she wasn't alone; wasn't the first to suffer in that room or the first to move on and back into the world to confront the dragons and demons God - or fate or whatever - had put in her path.
Despite being left alone and injured, she was still in control of herself and her life. Probably because society had broken down so far, so fast, she was probably more in control of her life than at any time since she was a child. To commemorate this, she pressed her bloody lips to the page marking Psalm 127… adding another soul reaching out through this memoir from a world with a dying breed of problems.
Part 4
Molly’s journey from the bloody floor of a motel room to the Down Under of HG World was generally uneventful. When I say uneventful, I mean that she had to navigate the same horrors and risks we’ve all endured out on the road. Her beating left her with a swollen eye and a ringing in her left ear. She knew she wouldn’t make it far on foot with a twisted ankle and all the bruising along her arms and legs that made any movement burn across her body.
The eaters began darkening the window and scraping across the threshold with more frequency and remaining longer. Molly could hear them forcing through the brush and garbage behind the motel room, probably lured by the sound of running water or the smell of her blood through the open vent above the bathroom window. Staying gave her no chance at all. Eventually, she pictured a mob outside crashing through to get at her. With this image in her mind, Molly fought through the pain and that nagging urge to lie down and sleep.
She opened the bathroom vent wider and turned on the shower. It had the desired effect. The eater couldn’t get through the vent seven feet above unstable ground, but the smell and the sound drove them crazy. Their growls and moans summoned others away from the front. Waiting until the front door cleared, she headed off in the direction that seemed safest as quickly as her aching legs carried her.
She mentioned a steady breeze that had the benefit of masking her scent as downwind was behind her most of the time she walked. At least she could keep ahead of walkers chasing her. Her mind was on the road ahead and not on time or distance.
Some time into an uneventful walk, she came across a gray Honda sedan parked facing north in the southbound lane. The trunk was open as was the driver door. The warning chime was strong, indicating that the car had power and, more importantly, the keys were in the ignition. Part of the driver – his lower half, remained wedged between the door and the frame. The rest of him was missing, but everything from the waist up – minus a chunk of flesh and a gallon of blood – lay in a trail leading into the woods off to the side of the road. Part of him smeared across the front of a dead eater slumped against a guard rail ten feet away. A 9mm automatic lay on the ground just by the car. She took the gun and the man’s shoes, left the legs for the eaters she heard trampling back from the trees and drove away on half a tank of gas.
Traveling southeast, Molly began to notice survival tags on billboards and signs. Survivors would spray paint warnings wherever they could, using symbols whenever possible like “CHURCH RUN ROAD” with a skull and crossbones next to it or “Meadville Airport” in the middle of a circle with a line cutting through it. One of these was scrawled in red spraypaint across a T.G. Applebusters billboard and it read “LISTEN 580AM .” After about 30 minutes of listening to 50s do-wop, she was about to turn off the radio when she heard a two-pack a day voice growl “goooooood morning, survivors.”
I’ve heard Todd Rage on the AM station and between old man stories and discussions of his last bowel movement, he does provide some quality intel about eater herds, quote-official-end quote information from the
shredded pieces of what claims is the US government. He has people in the field scavenging for food, reaching out to survivors and – until the site closed down completely – guiding people to HG World for safety.
Molly followed that voice and noticed signs directing her off the main road, avoiding several infected and blocked areas to an access road where she joined a queue of survivors in a line up a hill to the same intake station that I passed through. According to her timetable, we arrived within a few days of each other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – OF POOPSMITHS AND PARIAHS
I slept until someone pounded on her door and scared us both awake. I had no idea how much time had passed, though I felt I had just nodded off. Molly jumped up out of bed. The pounding apparently identified the caller because Molly growled, “Okay, Gary! Jesus! I’m coming!”
A hushed conversation took place at the door while I tried to get my bearings again. Whatever it was had Molly irritated and changing into thermal coveralls she had stowed in a drawer. Something about her conversation with Gary changed her mood completely and it was as if I wasn’t there. Without any explanation, she focused on getting dressed quickly and had this look of concern that I guess was a sort-of “game face .” This ‘Gary’ stood outside, staring in through the crack in the door at an angle he could see both of us. He could see I was in Molly’s bed. I said nothing, but my skin crawled as I felt him watching us. Why didn’t Molly shut the door?
Cover-alls work boats and work gloves. She turned toward the door. If she spun the other direction I wonder if she would have remembered me being there at all, but I passed through her field of vision.
“Jilly…” she smiled, barely masking the surprise on her face. “Work emergency. Stay here. Make yourself comf..or whatever. I’ll be back soon.”
“What’s going on?”
Her eyes shifted in Gary’s direction with a look I took for “Can’t talk now.” She stomped off toward the door and the two left. I distinctly heard the click of a lock. From the outside.
If you’ve learned anything about me by now it’s that I don’t like being left out of something. My only conflict was the opportunity to go snooping through Molly’s room – not creeping on her so much – but to learn more about what she does, what the Down Under does. My assumptions about my situation were pretty standard. The world around me is controlled. Confirming I was locked in also confirmed that the room itself was deemed “safe” for my consumption. It wasn’t likely that there would be any clues there beyond what Paul Hansome wanted me to find. Everything I found helped me flavor my account of Molly’s journey to HG World. I also assumed that Paul expected me to use a ball point pen to foil the cheap door lock and venture out into the hall. If they really wanted me to stay put, there would have been a guard outside.
I imagined Paul Hansome watching a video monitor, clicking between the small web cams set up in the suspended ceiling along the maze of passages making up the FEMA section of the Down Under. I imagined this place full of bureaucrats, dozens of people working to process the paperwork at the end of civilization, documenting people and conditions; doing all the things cube-jockeys do to keep the wheels of government turning. The Bureau of Refugee Relocation. The Office of Land Reclamation & Disposition. The Center for Human Capital Excellence. The Office of Property Acquisition and Restoration (aka The National Lost and Found). All these proud-sounding particle board cube farms, designed to engage to manage a crisis of Exodus proportions – were silent, empty and dark.
They never even got started. Office chairs covered in plastic pumped up against empty desks with unused computer workstations. There was no sign of the usual office swag you’d find. There was no sign of a poster with a cat hanging off a tree limb “hanging on til Friday .” No photocopy of a cartoon man laughing as he asks “You want it when?” No bobble-heads or family pictures in frames. No Terrible Towels. No water in the cooler. No mess in the microwave. No passive-aggressive threat to whoever was dumping their coffee dregs into the water fountain in the hall… nothing. But dust. And mouse droppings. And the feeling of surrender.
A closet, filled with unused laptops, blackberries and projectors, batteries, chargers… one for every man, woman and Jebediah living in HG World.
Down further, a gym with new equipment, still covered in plastic. The showers beyond it were open and had the look – and smell – of being used recently, though I can’t vouch for how recently they’d been cleaned. The walls of the gym were glass with masking tape crossing each pane. The glass double-doors were locked. A door connecting it to the next section was unlocked and another corridor extended into darkness in the opposite direction. On the other side of the section door, I walked into something that reminded me of Overt Hall, a co-ed dormitory back at Centre University. There was even a window at the end of the hall radiating bright sunshine. Even from a distance I was pretty sure the widow was just another white light box, but I felt my mood lift immediately. It was a dorm block if I’d ever seen one – several doors extending the length of the hall, each uniquely adorned with colorful posters and post-its, doodles and scribbles on paper taped to them. As I walked the length, I felt at home.
Through the doors, I could hear music played softly and muffled conversations. Even though it was inevitable that one of these twenty doors might open at any time, I felt drawn into this place and I was confident I could explain away my presence with natural curiosity, introduce myself to the “Carla and Maude” living in room SB-114 and maybe even fold myself up into a bean bag chair, find some chee-Z-snaks and shoot the shit while sneaking a little vodka into our cans of Fanta. “Jonah and Mikey” from SB-117 could bring a guitar over and we could turn on our electric candles and talk about “Benny” in SB-121 or “Althea” in SB-127 or…
The smile on my face and the spring in my step took “Gil” from SB-128 off guard as he exited his dorm room. He was decidedly not of college age. In his navy blue cover-alls, he looked like the dorm superintendent and the look on his face was like a man caught snooping through a girls’ room. I stopped in my tracks as did he. He asked the obvious questions and I answered “I’m Jilly Woodbine. I’m just looking around my new neighborhood.”
Gil looked me over as if taking inventory. “You’re new.” Clever man. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Why not? I didn’t see any signs.
“Do you know your way around?”
“Not really. That’s kinda why I’m exploring.”
He seemed to be anxious to get somewhere as he explained “There are places you shouldn’t just explore. Some doors need to stay closed, right?"
"What's that mean?"
"Open the wrong door and you'll find out." He had on the same coverall-and-boots ensemble Molly took to work along with a utility belt holding an odd assortment of tools, radio, and a hard hat under his arm. He also had the same kind of concerned expression.
"What's going on? Everybody seems tense."
"Go back to where ya came from. I gotta get to it."
With that, he jogged on down the hall, dangling tools slapping against his saggy backside as he went. He made a left at the boxed light, his footfalls continuing until he passed through a sectional door. I checked out his door. He lived alone. “Gilbert D Stern” aka “Stern-o” aka “poopsmith .” His hand-written name tag on the door was bookended by a picture of the shit-monster from the movie Dogma and The Poopsmith from that old Homestar Runner cartoon.
I walked to the corner where Stern-o disappeared and peeked around. I couldn't see much beyond there through the little square window in the connector door, but the light was harsh and inconsistent - the start of a dying fluorescent in the ceiling. The webcam in the corner over the door caught me peeking. A little red light blinked on which called my attention to it. Turning back to the dorm hallway, I noticed three other red lights on cameras. The thought crossed my mind that even though someone was spying, he or she or they were up front about it.
The door to SB-131 opened and th
e grotesque ceramic crucifix hanging from the doorplate bounced and clunked against the wood. A large woman of about sixty hard-lived years penguin-walked into the hall covered in something that might have once been a gray track suit. Her eyes were the color of a cigarette stain and I make the comparison judging the ones on her own fingers. The room smelled like a museum to venerated ashtrays. Behind her, inside the frame set by the doorway, the word JESUS appeared in six foot spray-painted letters on the opposite wall.
"Where you up to, girl?"
I couldn't get my brain around the sentence, so I chose to simply enjoy the fact that she sounded like the old lady gangster in The Goonies and waited for her to speak again. When she did, a little giddy schoolgirl clap rose up from my tummy. It was so adorable. "I say, where you up to, nah? Where you goin?"