Murray's Law

by Christina Rozelle

  Twenty-Two

  I only get a few miles in the direction of Wipeouts when the gas light blinks on in the Lincoln. To make matters worse, I’m not sure if I’m going the right direction. I’m leaning toward seventy percent yes, I am, and thirty percent I’m fucked.

  There’s a flash of light behind me, close. It disappears, then reappears seconds later beside me. A small, hovering, aerial object. I panic and tear ass off-road, downhill through the dark grass and onto an access road. I can’t stay in this car, but I can’t get out where it can see me, either. Another glimpse in my mirrors and around me finds the drone nowhere in sight, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there . . .

  And then, I’m dumbstruck by a realization. If Murray isn’t real . . . maybe the drones aren’t, either . . . ?

  So I’ve conjured up drone hallucinations. Fucking fantastic. And now that my schizophrenic-ass is even more lost, I might as well start looking for another vehicle, or some gas, and forget the fact that I am, beyond a doubt, a complete whacko.

  I can’t help checking the skies, though. Murray was correct about other things, despite his being a fabrication of my higher mind, or some hippie, new-age shit like that. So maybe he was right about the drones. Better to be safe.

  I pull into a Circle M Mart, to a cluster of parked cars there. It appears that some employees were scheduled to work on Doomsday. Sucks for them. And the front doors are closed, windows still intact, so I bet they’re still in there.

  Sorry, Murray, the vitamins will have to wait. For now, here’s to hoping one of these cars works.

  After gathering all of my and Gideon’s belongings into the passenger seat, I unlock the doors, check the skies one more time, and get out. The first door I try belongs to a Honda Criminal, which I’m bummed to find locked. Not that the neon green rice-burner would be such a great choice for flying under any sort of radar, but it’s a badass car.

  I skip the white Mazda four-door and try a dark brown Chevy Blazer XXL with spinners. The front door is locked, but the window’s cracked enough for me to fit my arm in and unlock it. As I’m loading my belongings into the passenger seat, a cluster of figures ambles my direction.

  I climb up into the Blazer and wait for them to pass. When they’re out of sight, I lift the lever to move the seat, then crouch to remove the plastic steering column. Thankfully it’s an older-model vehicle so it’s an easy feat.

  When I first learned how to hot-wire a car, it was with the boy who would later rape me four times in three days after kidnapping me in a hot-wired car. Knowing how to do this gives me a fantastic mix of emotions, led by rage, but also a fuck-you, because I’m alive, you perverted sack of shit. Despite what you did to me, I’m alive. And now I’m using something you taught me to stay further alive.

  I win.

  After stripping the sheath from the ends of the battery wires, I go to twist them together, when I notice the red ignition switch on the underside of the column. I remember he’d said something about older cars having them sometimes, and finding the one on Henry’s old Blazer when I practiced hot-wiring at age ten. It seems like only yesterday, though I’ve tried for years not to think about anything from that period of my life, except for Aislynn.

  When I flip the switch, the vehicle starts up and idles low. It desperately needs a tune-up, but it’s running. I start out of the parking lot of the Circle M Mart and something slams against my door—a man, alive, but covered in blood, and panicking. He goes for the door handle, but I lock it before he can open it, and reverse out of the spot as he draws a gun on me.

  I peel off, and he fires, pegging the bumper and the rear fender, but missing the glass, thank goodness. My hearts thumps in my chest as I watch him in my rearview mirror. He pursues me for a few steps, then stops to lean on his knees. He may have been a nice guy at some point, but old “nice guy” standards went out the window with most of humankind a few months ago. Can’t be too careful now.

  For the first time in a long time, I reach for my phone. I always listened to Willow Trees on a Stormy Night in Space when I drove at night. Oh, how I wish I could listen to it now. Most of the songs I’ve already forgotten, but my favorites still linger and sometimes play in my mind so crystal clear . . . I miss Azedia. Sarah McLachlan. So many more, it hurts to name them, even silently, in my mind. I’ll never hear ninety-nine percent of them again. It’s like losing another best friend.

  When “Witness” by Sarah McLachlan comes to mind, as clear as day, I roll down the windows and sing to the passing dead, the lost and living, and to the heavens. I sing for Corbin, Eileen, Henry, and Evie, because it kills me that I never once sang for any of them. Such a precious, untapped resource I kept hidden—even from myself—for too long. It was a priceless gift I would’ve given them all, had I realized its worth.

  I finally drive by a self-service car wash I recognize and do a little dance in my seat. I’m on a winning streak tonight. A cigarette to celebrate sounds good. I take out the Marlboros from Mr. Ralph Lauren, the dead man who was probably pissed he died before he got to enjoy that nice eight ball of coke.

  Ugh. Thinking about it makes me jones. And it makes me feel gross. I hadn’t done it in so long, I forgot how nasty you feel the day after. With that sadist craving for more to top it off . . . Thankfully the worst of it’s over for me, though.

  I can’t help laughing out loud at the absurdity of that thought. My life is one giant comedown now, and it never ends. There are highs, but they take place inside the lows; tiny fish or shells, caught in a tidal wave of never-ending desolation. When the drugs leave my system, the nightmarish bad trip doesn’t end.

  Anguish and fear wash over me, and my hands tremble at the wheel. There’s a struggle at my lips, which quiver as I clamp my jaw against it, but it’s too strong. The dam breaks, and I’m sobbing so hard I can barely see to drive. Fucking mood swings. Could be the coke. Might be the fact that my son or daughter is wrapped in a washcloth in a backpack. And it could be that I’m all alone now. Probably all of the above.

  To my right is a busted window I recognize. The ice cream shop I found the shotgun in. Murray’s ice cream shop. My mood swings again, to relief, because this is my first sign of being close to home. And it swings again to laughter, then sobs, because an abandoned waterslide tower at an equally abandoned water park is the closest thing I have to a home now.

  Twenty-Three

  When I pass the Cadillac I dove into the night I almost died, the river of emotion intensifies. The back door still stands wide open. I slow to a stop, check the area to make sure I’m alone before parking behind the car. The runner I blasted with the shotgun still lies in the same spot on the other side. I’m baffled at why I can’t remember anything. That I’m still alive after that, is an unsolved miracle.

  In the back floorboard where I left them are my backpack and my acquired shotgun from Murray’s ice cream shop. I snatch them up, numb with disbelief. Not only had I managed to get to Wipeouts on foot, in the daylight, delirious with fever, and near death, but I’d also been unarmed. If I made it then, I’ll make it now. Just a few more blocks to go.

  I return to the Blazer, secure the shotgun and the backpack in the front seat, and put it in drive. This road is heavily cluttered with debris and cars, so I creep along, moving cautiously around them. When I pass the old Spaghetti Warehouse that Gideon and I had been able to see from our north window, my stomach flutters. About four more blocks to go.

  Our waterslide tower is the first thing I see, followed by the rest of the rides. Then the tall, chain link fence covered in black plastic, the ticket booth, and our in-and-out. Home sweet home. At the booth nearest the fence, I stop and park, checking the skies and the ground around me. Nothing in sight. No lights or any signs of inhabitants in the park. It doesn’t mean there aren’t any, though, so I don’t plan on letting my guard down.

  Protect me, Goddess. A habitual thought that crept back in via my fear. It comforts me, though, no matter what my current state of disbeli
ef is. It sure as hell can’t hurt.

  I consider leaving some of my stuff in the Blazer—I won’t be here for long—but decide to play it safe and take it. Climbing the fence will be a bitch, but I’m tired of losing shit. I strap on my backpack, along with Gideon’s, two of our remaining rifles, and my katana from the passenger side floorboard, and almost change my mind. Why did I come here? There’s a lump in my throat, a pressure behind my eyes. Too much sadness here. But that’s everywhere, now.

  When I get to the ticket booth, a body lunges from inside, and I swing my katana. It was once a woman with long braids, but now the braids are severed, scattered on the ground by her bloody, bare, rotted feet. I use her Dallas Cowboys jersey to clean my blade. It’s getting easier to kill them. I still get queasy each time, but not as much as I used to. I haven’t puked in a while, so there’s that.

  I climb up onto the ticket booth and scale the fence. Even weak from lack of food, loss of blood, and loaded with gear, Gideon’s cross-training for the last month has built up my strength and endurance. But my gratitude’s weighted with sadness when I step onto the ground and into surroundings I recognize. Everything’s all wrong. Will it ever be right again?

  When we were here, together, there was a veil around me, an illusion. I thought we might have a chance at some sort of normalcy. But the truth was hidden behind Gideon’s secrets the whole time. Why he kept this possibility from me, I don’t know. That he may have done it to protect me somehow doesn’t fully douse the fury.

  I run the familiar path to our hideout, fumbling with my load and my heavy, broken pieces. The wrath gives way to adrenaline, propelling me forward and up the steps to my and Gideon’s abandoned honeymoon suite. It gets me three-fourths of the way up before a wave of nausea and exhaustion stops me in my tracks. I double over to catch my breath before starting up again, slowly this time.

  When I get to the entrance, which stands wide open, black tarp hanging down on one side, I hold my weapon at ready. I watched Gideon reinforce that with eight screws. Someone did this. With my hands clenched tightly around my blade handle, I take slow steps until I reach the top, and peer inside. What was left behind is now disheveled, ransacked. Could’ve been anyone, I guess . . . but something tells me it has to do with Gideon’s lies.

  After straightening things, securing a couple of flapping pieces of plastic, and laying out the pillows, I sit with my backpack in front of me. With trembling hands, I unzip the small pocket and take out the folded washcloth.

  Time stops, and the world falls silent.

  I kiss the cloth, then nestle the tiny bundle in the corner on top of a smaller pillow. And though so many thoughts and words spin through my mind, I say nothing. Maybe there is more to be said with silence, to allow this moment to be what it is, both triumph and tragedy. Same as my continued existence on this planet.

  On the bed of pillows where she grew inside me, I weep for the child that should’ve been me. For the state of the world the angel left behind. For the wild ones out there in it, learning on their own how to survive. Becoming monsters themselves, because of what they’ve been through, because they have no light to look forward to. Is there hope for them? Even if they survive? Even if they outlive the night blind? Will they become night blind themselves?

  I suppose if there’s hope for me, then there’s hope for them, too. I was broken before I was reborn, rebuilt from the ground up. I was a devastated plane with no hope for life. A toxic wasteland with no human survivors. But I made it out, miraculously, and now I know who I am.

  I’m Grace Anne Vincent, daughter of Eileen and Henry Vincent, sister to Corbin Michael Vincent, and best friend to Lucy Eve Davisson. I’m in love with a mystery named Gideon, and I have a will to live, lit by a fire deep in my soul. The fire comes from loss. It comes from longing and pain and thirst for vengeance. It comes from agony and passion and loneliness. And I will survive. Because I have, and I’ve been given a second chance—a life where I see the light of truth, even in the darkness of mental collapse.

  I cry myself to sleep, wrapped in our old fleece blanket, the smell of stale sex and dirt offering comfort to my misery. Tomorrow’s a new day. I’ll worry about it when it comes.

  The drizzling rain wakes me from a dead sleep. I check my watch, but the arms are still. With the gray color of the sky, it’s hard to tell what time it is, but I’d guess early morning. While water drips through the three leaky spots in the roof, my stomach begs feebly for nourishment, a sensation I’ve become used to.

  I start to roll over to reach for my backpack, when something above me catches my attention: a piece of white paper peeking out from behind a support beam. It wasn’t there before. So many days spent staring up at that roof . . .

  I bolt upright, then stand too fast, steadying myself when I get dizzy. I grab our footstool from the corner and set it in the center, then stand on my tiptoes to reach it. When I see my name, the tears come before I even unfold the note.

  Grace,

  If you’re reading this, I’m either dead or I’ve been apprehended, and you’ve returned to our honeymoon suite, like I guessed you would in either event. I’ve gotten to know you so well...

  I’m so sorry I failed you. My sole purpose was to stay with you, to stay alive, to keep you alive, and I didn’t do that. Just thinking about it right now, sitting here watching you sleep kills me. Thinking about you alone in this world absolutely fucking kills me, Grace. But I know you. You’re the strongest girl I’ve ever met. You can do this, baby. I believe in you more than anything or anyone I’ve ever believed in. And what I want for you more than anything is to still be smiling and singing when I’m gone, because that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.

  I love you so damn much. I have from the moment I saw you, and I will until the end of time. I never was a believer in love at first sight, but I know for a fact that’s what I experienced with you. Now, my love for you grows every day and it’ll never ever stop growing, no matter what. Not even death can change that. So you keep fighting, okay? And I’ll be there in spirit, fighting and loving with you. I’ll always be right there with you.

  Whether I’m dead or if I’ve been apprehended, go to the Tunnels. DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME. I mean it; it’s too dangerous. If I’m alive, I WILL FIND YOU or I’ll send someone to find you. The entrance to the Tunnels is the old grain silo off of highway sixty-five, between exits thirty-two and thirty-three. When you get there, ask for Deuce, and tell him Gideon Tyler sent you. You’ll be safe there until I find you. And when you get there, ask for Dr. Rezner—he’ll be able to help with the PTSD, and any other medical needs.

  I’m so sorry I lied to you. I did it because I love you, and the last thing I wanted was for you to think I would ever hurt you. I didn’t want you to think of me any differently. Please, do whatever it takes to stay alive for me, okay? And I promise I’ll do the same for you. I love you with all my heart.

  If I’m still alive, I will come for you, no matter what, and I’ll tell you everything, I promise. I’ll find you. Somehow, some way, someday, whether this life or the next.

  Love always, Gideon Stunned, I stare at the paper. He’s alive, wherever he is. I’m sure of it now. Wherever he escaped from, they found him and brought him back. But if he got away once, he can get away again.

  Adrenaline and hope form a powerful mixture of fuel. I knew it was why he withheld information from me. He knew about the Tunnels, and probably much more that he never shared with me. But he wanted to protect me from his past. That, I’m familiar with. And he wanted a fresh start, too. Not that his lies don’t make me angry—they do—but it’s an understanding anger, and one that will be followed by forgiveness and gratitude the moment I hold him in my arms again.

  I have to get Logan and Missy and take them to the Tunnels with me. In all of this fear and uncertainty, there’s a thread of mystery that coaxes me toward unveiling the ultimate truth. And I’ll do so with my new family by my side.

  Twenty-Four

 
When night falls, I can’t leave Wipeouts fast enough. The rain has stopped and the ground is slick as the balls of my feet carry me toward the exit. I whisper a final goodbye to my Angel baby and to this place I once called home. I have a feeling this is the last time I’ll see it. But I’m ready to move on, now that I have hope and a destination.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper, as Wipeouts get smaller in my rearview mirror. I grab a random CD from my backpack—Flyleaf—pop the player open, drop it inside, and press “play.”

  Everything is wrong. The world is dead, and I’m alone. But at least I still have music.

  Lacy Sturm’s voice takes me back to junior high. God, things were shitty then. They always were, but especially then. I was a late bloomer who bloomed the summer before eighth grade, so suddenly I had C cups and curves and more male attention than I could handle. I both loathed and loved it.

  But my shittiest day then couldn’t compare to a normal day in my life now. The veil of delusion has been lifted and I can see myself, the world, and my past all for what they really are now. And when you discover that truth, especially for the first time, how could you not fight for life? Who knows what could be in store for me next . . . ?

  I pass a Babies R Us and a Costco—I assume the one Logan found Missy at—then take a left by a Shell gas station I remember. I drive for a couple of miles, unsure if I’m going in the right direction, but it feels correct. There’s an overturned red pickup truck that looks familiar . . .

  My spirits lift when I spy the sign for The Devil’s Punch Bowl, now on the opposite side of the street from when Gideon and I had passed it the first time, right before meeting Logan and Missy at the CVS. Not too much farther now.

  A flash of light to my left makes me jump, and when I see a hovering craft keeping speed with me outside my window, I panic and step on the gas. A set of headlights appears in my rearview mirror, then they separate, and the two beams gain speed to either side of me. When they get closer, I make out figures in dark clothing on motorcycles.