Transformation

  Weed walked all night down the long straight highway. It was a silent, lonely walk in near pitch blackness. But it gave him plenty of time to think, to process all that had transpired over the past few hours, days, his entire life even.

  He walked until the sun came up and his ass crack burned from the friction. He kept walking until late morning when he came across a road that ran under the highway. No off-ramp, no signs, but Weed could see buildings in the distance. Probably a few miles. He kept on kicking rocks.

  As he approached the buildings, he was getting pissed. There looked to be jack-shit around and he’d almost walked his ass off, literally. He circled the buildings and found one vehicle. One crappy old farm-trashed pickup truck. It was a beast of a thing, probably made in the seventies and put through hell in the fields. He opened the door and climbed in. He checked the visor, under the seats. Nothing. He noted the odometer out of curiosity, a little over 6,000 miles. The beast had probably never left the farm

  “Today’s your lucky day, Old Beast. We’re breaking out of here,” Weed mumbled to himself with a smile. The only building that looked like it might have keys for the old truck was just a few yards away.

  The building had one door with a sign that read “office” duct taped to it. He turned the knob. Locked. He kicked the door. Solid. He went back to the truck and dug around. Finally he decided he had to hotwire the thing. He pulled his knife and laid on the floor of the driver’s side. He yanked and cut wires, twisted a few together, and the truck started.

  He looked at the gauges. Half a tank of gas, good. He cut the engine and walked to the rear of the building where he’d seen trash strew about. He found what he thought would be a few useful items and tossed them in the bed of the truck. He was dropping the truck in gear and rumbling away seconds later. He kicked up a dust cloud as he tore down the road. Within minutes he was back on the highway and speeding back towards Ron. It took him about twenty minutes to get back to where he started many hours before.

  §

  Ron saw the vehicle coming and for a few painful moments he worried it wasn’t Francis but someone who would do him harm. He was in no condition to escape or defend himself. He watched until the vehicle was in view and when he saw the old man behind the wheel he almost wept with joy. His emotions surprised him, and he wiped a tear away quickly.

  “Don’t want the old fart to call me a pussy,” he said to himself, not able to stop smiling if he wanted to. He waved at Francis as he walked towards him.

  Weed nodded and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of old Ronnie sitting in that truck waving like a fool.

  Francis got straight to work. He slid under the truck and cut a long section of the fuel line out. He siphoned the gas out of the tank and into an old bucket. He cut the bottom off a 2-liter bottle and used the top as a funnel. Ron held it as he poured the gas into the tank. They were back in business.

  Both men were exhausted and starving. Ron’s foot was throbbing. Weed’s ass crack was burning something awful. But they were moving and their spirits were once again lifted higher than one might expect in such circumstances. But when one has too much time to ponder things, they tend to run to the negative.

  “I don’t know what I am going to do,” Ron was staring out of the window, watching the ground fly by while the mountains seemingly stood still. He turned to look at Francis. The old man was driving, looking straight ahead at the road. Outwardly it appeared he hadn’t heard a word Ron said. But suddenly he started talking.

  “Ronnie. I was raised to hate black people. Blacks, Jews, Chinks, Spics; if you ain’t white you ain’t right. It was drilled into my head from day one.” He looked over at Ron who was watching him warily. He turned back to the road and continued.

  “All my life I never saw any evidence that darkies was any good at all. Thieves, criminals, drug dealers and killers, every one of them. I hated them all while associating with white folks that were no better. I rode with an MC for decades that held the same opinions on such matters. The hate never consumed me like it did others, but I had my opinions and they were right in line with my compadres. Now I am here with a darkie. Tell me Ron, what am I supposed to do?”

  Weed fell silent for a while.

  Ron had no idea what to say in response to his question.

  “Was I a racist? Yes. But the reality of the situation has changed that. There is no more black and white—no more races. Now there’s just me and my brother Ron. We became family when we were thrown into this shit together.”

  Weed was silent for a minute as he lit another joint. He squinted at the smoke that filled the cab.

  “You know the first time around, I was given the shit end of the stick when it came to family. But this time I really hit the jackpot with you and the gang back at the garage. I don’t care what color you are or what you think of me. All I know is that you got my old white ass covered and I got your black ass likewise so. We’ve just been through some real shit together and will have stories to tell. For my part, the part of the story most significant to me, was that I had to choose who I was to spend eternity with. Previously the choice would’ve been Nazis or Negroes and I would have said Nazis hands down, things being what they were. But now my choice was between a bunch of assholes or you.”

  He faced Ron as if to indicate the importance of the statement he was about to make.

  “So, what are you going to do? You’re going to adjust to the new world and adjust to life with your most unlikely friend.”

  Ron nodded, “I don’t know if I can adjust to a life without Donna.”

  Weed stared at the road in silence for a moment before he spoke low and soft.

  “I hope for my sake you can.”

  They drove on in silence for a few more hours. By late afternoon they were closing in on the garage. They watched the garage as it came into view. They were still miles away from it.

  Weed drove on the elevated highway towards their home. The road was clear, no cars and no people. As they drew closer, they saw a figure in the road. Weed slowed.

  “What the hell?” Ron’s eyes were better than the older man’s. He could make out the odd, seemingly nude figure walking towards them. It was walking fast.

  “What is it Ron?”

  “I don’t know but something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Well, what do you see?”

  “I can’t tell. Looks like a nude person walking quickly towards us. Something’s not right about its body, the limbs.”

  Weed stopped the truck and cut the engine.

  Ron watched the figure as it stopped and turned. It walked back the way it came and disappeared from sight.

  Ron rubbed his chin. “I think it’s safe to go forward. We’ll deal with whatever comes our way.”

  Weed started the truck and drove on.

  Both men were silent as they approached the place where they thought the figure had been. They both looked about nervously but saw no evidence of it.

  Finally they were very close to the garage. Weed killed the engine and opened the door.

  “I want to take a look around before we drive down that ramp.”

  Despite the pain, Ron followed and at the edge of the overpass they stopped at the rail and couldn’t believe what they saw.

  “Oh my God.” Ron looked at Francis in disbelief.

  Weed’s eyes were squinting in the sun at the sight before him. “God ain’t got nothing to do with that shit son.”

  The ground below the overpass, and for as far as the eye could see, was covered with corpses. A massive tangle of bodies, a thick carpet of limbs and heads.

  “Why are they all here?” Ron asked.

  “Something attracted them. Probably the explosion.” Weed wondered if they should wade through that shit or drive over it.

  “I don’t think the truck can make it through.” Ron stood, arms folded. “I’m getting back in the truck, my leg hurts bad.”

  Weed stood and studied the bodies directly below them for a mo
ment then turned and walked back to the truck.

  §

  “What’d you make of those two?” Cullen tugged at his beard as he watched Ron and Weed. He wasn’t sure, but thought the truck they were driving was completely loaded with marijuana. Who were they? Where were they going? Where did they come from?

  “Only one way to find out.” Cullen started walking towards them.

  “What?” Dawn was still pissed at Cullen. He’d pushed them all night and slapped Hope because she wouldn’t stop whining.

  “Shut up,” he spat back at her.

  “Fuck you,” she mumbled.

  Hope sniffed.

  Gerald continued to stare at his feet. Egg wasn’t there.

  When they stopped to rest and Egg couldn’t stand up again, Cullen walked away. But Dawn couldn’t leave Egg there crying and rocking in pain.

  “Here Egg.” She said as she sat next to him. “Sweet Egg, you just relax.”

  Egg stopped his struggles and looked at Dawn with eyes wet and full of pain.

  “It’s time for Eggy to go to sleep OK?”

  Egg nodded.

  “Now stay here and be quiet, OK.”

  Egg whimpered and nodded. He squirmed, fists balled, as he tried to be quiet.

  Dawn went and found a plastic bag in a nearby garbage can.

  “OK, is Eggy ready to go to sleep?”

  “Jesus, would you hurry up.” Cullen prodded. Dawn ignored him.

  Dawn put the bag over Egg’s head and pulled it tight around his neck.

  After a few minutes in the loose bag Egg was struggling to breath, but he didn’t try to remove it from his head. Dawn watched him, smiling.

  “This is taking too long.” Cullen stepped forward and raised his rifle over Egg’s head.

  Dawn shot him a glance that caused him to back down.

  “Asshole.” She hissed and turned back towards Egg with a smile as he struggled to breathe.

  It took him almost eight full minutes to die.

  “Bye Eggy.” Dawn kissed the boy on the head and left.

  Dawn hated Cullen but didn’t want to travel alone. Hope was Dawn’s shadow and Gerald was a simpleton that would follow them without question.

  As their group closed the distance, the old white man looked up. The black dude was still staring off into space. Cullen waved.

  §

  Weed caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up to see a group of folks approaching in the distance. Weed immediately felt uneasy. It was normal to feel such a way these days.

  “Ronnie.” Weed motioned to the group.

  Ron turned to look. “I wonder who they are?”

  As they drew closer and Weed could see them more clearly he turned and with a grin said. “Assholes.”

  “What? You don’t even know . . . “

  “Ronnie. Now I’ve spent my life around assholes, and I’m telling you these kids are grade A assholes. I can see it a mile away, even with my shitty eyes.”

  “I just find it hard to believe you can tell that much about a person at a glance.”

  “Well, it’s what I do Ron. What is it you see that no one else can?”

  “I see crowns, veneers, implants . . . “

  “So I would be a real dickhead to tell you any different if you said that fellow had fake teeth or some shit.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “OK. I have a lifetime of dealing with assholes. I know assholes. The biggest one of the bunch is that bearded fucker in the middle there. He’ll be the first to try some shit, then that feisty blond there. The other two look like the type to ball up or run. Mark my words and keep a sharp eye.”

  “OK. You make a good argument. I’ll follow your lead.” Ron paused for a bit. “So I should’ve listened to Dale about you?”

  “Before all this.” Weed gestured around him. “He would have been dead on right about me in most respects—as I’ve told you. But that was before all this happened and before our big adventure together. He was still playing by the old rules.”

  “Did you do something to him?” Ron asked point blank. He locked eyes with Francis.

  Before Weed could answer the youngsters were there.

  “Hello.” Cullen waved.

  “Hello yourself young man,” Weed smiled.

  Cullen looked up at the truck. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Yep.” Weed smiled. “It’s a shitload of parsley.”

  Everybody had a laugh, well most everyone. Hope and Gerald were a bit too dense for humor that flew that high.

  “Where you fellows headed?” Weed asked the picture of nonchalance.

  Ron started to speak. “We have a . . . “ He was pointing at the structure. Weed cut him off.

  “Yeah, we have a meet set with some fellows over that a way. Apparently parsley still has value in this world. And this is some really good parsley. You’re welcome to some if you like.”

  “Thanks.” Cullen squinted his eyes. “OK then. We’ll just be on our way.”

  The bearded fellow walked off with his crew in tow.

  Weed smiled as he watched the four kids go around the backside of the truck. As soon as they cleared it, he bent down to watch their feet. Two of the four kids went up onto the side of the truck just as he expected them to. He motioned with two fingers for Ron to follow him. They rolled under the truck.

  When Weed came out from under the truck on the other side, he saw the chubby girl looking up. She didn’t even seem to notice him. The fat pimply boy opened his mouth to scream but Weed had already jumped to his feet and punched the kid in the gut before he got off a shout. He grabbed the little chubby girl by the hair and put his knife to her throat.

  One kid was on the ground gasping for air and Francis held a knife to the throat of another as Ron was just coming from under the truck.

  “Hey you assholes! Come on down from there.”

  Cullen and Dawn were at the top of the cargo. They turned and Cullen smiled, Dawn looked horrified. They came down quickly.

  “Get your fucking hands off her,” Dawn yelled. She charged forward.

  “Nah, uh.” Weed said and pressed the blade to Hope’s throat. She squealed as he pulled her hair.

  “Fuck you,” Cullen sneered and walked closer to Weed. “You think I give a shit about her?”

  Dawn’s jaw dropped in shock as if it was a complete surprised that Cullen could feel that way. Her face melted into the deepest sorrow when she looked at Hope.

  Weed smiled. “No, but I know she does.” He addressed Dawn. “Ain’t that right, darling?”

  Dawn just nodded, speechless and dry mouthed. “Please don’t hurt her.”

  Weed nodded his head towards Cullen. “You’re not going to let her die because of him, are you?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Just let her go mister, please.”

  “Of course. All I want is them weapons of yours.”

  There were only two, Cullen’s rifle and Dawn’s shotgun.

  Cullen un-shouldered his rifle and pointed it at Ron.

  “Go ahead and kill her and I’ll . . . “

  The boom of Dawn’s shotgun made everyone jump but Cullen, Dawn, and Weed. Cullen’s head was blown off his shoulders and across the expressway in a red spray. Weed was expecting the girl to make such a choice. He saw the shotgun pivot over to the back of the boys head. He was smiling before she pulled the trigger.

  Weed held his hand out and Dawn gave him the gun. He let Hope go.

  “That was a smart move young lady. Now you three git, go on.”

  “With no weapons? I shot him for you.” Dawn said, flabbergasted.

  “Yes, and I do appreciate it. That’s why your girl there is still breathing.”

  Dawn frowned and looked Weed over in a manner that made even him feel uneasy. She grabbed Hope’s hand and walked off. Gerald followed still blubbering.

  Ron waited until the kids were a little ways off before he spoke. “You were completely right about them. C
ompletely.”

  “Yep, I know assholes.” Weed watched the three kids walking away. “You have to ask, how did those kids, as you call them, survive out here? Why are they out here anyways?”

  “Should we follow them?”

  “Nah, they’ll be back.”

  Weed cracked open the shotgun. A double barrel shotgun with only one spent shell in it. They had no more shells. The gun was useless. The rifle was missing parts, most importantly the firing pin. Weed kept an eye on the three kids as he checked the weapons. The thin blond turned and shot a glance back. He’d seen her kill in cold blood with no hesitation. He watched as she didn’t blink, didn’t give a second glance to the corpse of the boy at her feet. And he watched her do it all for that chubby girl.

  “We ain’t seen the last of them Ronnie.”

  45.

  Ben drove the Bronco straight to the San Jose International Airport, or so he tried. He was hot to blaze a trail straight to point B and kick some ass, but he had some shit to do first. He got off at an exit that looked promising and was quickly lost in a maze of residential streets. He was hungry—people got to eat—and he wanted a drink. He was tired too.

  At first he was frustrated at the lack of retail stores in the area, but then he slapped the wheel. He was driving by hundreds, thousands of the houses he used to dream about robbing but always he ended up with the safer, less profitable targets. These houses were all just stuffed with the shit he wanted like booze, drugs, and guns. He only needed to crack open a few.

  He stopped the Bronco in the street and walked a bit in the silence of the day just to check things out. Not a soul in sight, not a corpse or body. There was absolutely no noise. If not for the sound of his own footfalls, Ben would have worried he had lost his hearing.

  There was minimal evidence of an apocalypse. Bits of trash and a few errant weeds marked the absence of human attention. He quickly settled on a house when he realized he wouldn’t be able to stop at cracking open only one. He wanted to hit at least a few of them before dark. He spent a couple of hours opening doors and tearing the places apart.

  At one house, as Ben was tearing through drawers and closets, he found a gun. It was a silver revolver with a black rubber handle. It felt good in his hand. It held only six bullets but there was a pretty big box of ammo next to it. The gun house, as he thought of it, also had plenty of booze and piles of pills in it. There was a crap load to eat. He decided to hole up there for the night.