I heard what I would call a proverbial bell, but it wasn’t the one above the door.
I had been helping them for three weeks and we hadn’t made a dent. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, but every day and every body drilled another hole into my sanity.
At that moment, I truly did snap. All the days that the Chief beat on my door and my head about helping, guilting me to be a ‘team player’ a ‘good neighbor’, help out.
It was useless.
It was going nowhere nor would it. They had no end game.
None.
Their lives consisted of just picking up pieces and doing it slowly so they never had to finish and face the reality of what life would have to offer.
I got it. I did. I didn’t want to face it either, but there was no real choice.
I was losing it, I couldn’t image how the others weren’t. As cold as it sounded, it had to be done faster and like I suggested, there was one way to do it.
If they wouldn’t.
I would.
By no means would anyone consider me a go-getter. All my life, I went with the flow. About the only thing I went and got was that building we bought; and it took years to get it where me and Maranda wanted it to be.
Parts of that place were still not finished nor would they ever be.
There was one thing I was certain of.
I was dying inside.
How I was still walking, talking, even functioning was beyond me. I had lost everything. Every … single … thing. In all honestly, I just wanted to die. But that tiny part of me that doubted if there was really an afterlife, a heaven, was the only thing that kept me from slicing my wrists.
If there was no heaven, then it would all be for naught. I wouldn’t be reunited with my family, the only thing that it would accomplish would end the pain I felt with every breath, every day.
A pain I felt I deserved because I lived.
There was something I could do to stop the madness I thought was happening in High Water. The insanity of the dead routine.
Every day. Get up, get coffee, grab a cracker, get assignments and get bodies. Any houses had to be marked.
After that, lunch, then bury the dead.
Same thing.
Go to sleep, get up and do it again.
We were all turning into emotional zombies.
It defined insanity. Doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result, except there was none.
We weren’t even scavenging the homes.
What exactly was the use?
For those who wanted to move on, to try to find peace, that daily reminder routine of how many died had to end.
At least for me.
If I ended it? Or at least a good part of it, what would they do? Kick me out of town?
Did I have the right to do so?
At that point, I didn’t really care.
Enough was enough.
Never in a million years did I think that I would take such an initiative.
I was always told grief had five stages. When my father passed suddenly, I remember Pastor Monroe himself telling me, ‘There is no set stage to the cycles you’ll go through or how long each one will last, or even how fast you’ll change. You just have to go with it.”
The stages denial, anger, bartering, depression, and acceptance.
Not necessarily in that order and certainly not at all applicable with the ARC Vaccine effect.
There was no denying it and there would never be any acceptance.
Just depression and anger.
I had understandably been stalled in the depression stage for so long that I didn’t recognize how welcome that anger phase felt until I walked out of the diner, filled with a sudden rage
Do it, Travis, do it.
Did that anger come from nowhere? Absolutely not. I hated life, I hated myself and I had nothing left.
The survivors in High Water were good people. They were literally in a dead rut, hamsters in a wheel, round and round they went, and I stepped off.
I didn’t want to think too much about it because if I did, I wouldn’t go through with it.
In my mind, in my distorted reasoning, if we broke the routine, stopped lifting rotting bodies that in some way, we’d start to heal or die if that was the path chosen.
Knowing what I had to do, I went immediately to the print shop.
It dawned on me that I hadn’t been there since that day I went for wings. I called in once to take time off when Maranda took ill and that was it.
I pulled the truck to the loading dock, unlocked and raised the door.
Of all the places in town, I wasn’t expecting the smell of death to be there. I didn’t go searching the cause of the odor, someone in a wayward state went to work and never left. I passed my office, the little room with a window that looked out onto the floor and I paused. My light was still on, my desk was a mess, just the way I always left it, but one thing stood out.
The picture of Daisy.
There were other pictures on my desk, but the back of those frames faced me. Daisy’s picture was staring right at me. It was her kindergarten picture. I walked into my office and lifted it. Her eyes were so bright and that smile big, forced and cheesy. It broke my heart to look at it.
She was my baby and, in that picture, she was so full of life.
The spark on her face was lost before I lost her.
Daisy’s death was different than Maranda’s and Beau’s.
Beau’s was fast, unexpected and crushing. My head spun, I couldn’t figure out what to do next, but I had Maranda and Daisy to grab on to.
Maranda’s bout with The Lost went on far too long, it was hard and slow, an undeserving torture as if she had done something so horrible in life that she was getting a payback or purgatory.
But Daisy, she was all I had left. She suffered only three days. Long enough to be too much for her, but not enough for me to process I was going to lose her.
That first day she was combative and angry, she was scared of me as some stranger that kept trying to hug her, and tell her that I loved her. She forgot who she was, who I was.
The second day she stopped talking, she didn’t recognize me or react. She forgot how to eat and walk.
The third day… she forgot how to breathe.
I placed the picture down and focused on why I was there. While I didn’t know how much to get, I knew what to get, what do use. The print shop had everything I needed. Paper, flammable liquid, combustibles.
After loading my truck, I headed back to town, but first detouring to Reilly’s.
It was my own personal liquor store over the previous weeks, seeing how the Chief monitored what we took in town. Everyone forgot about Reilly’s.
Although I was hitting that stash pretty good, behind the bar was far from empty and I knew George kept some boxes in the basement.
Carrying that whiskey like it was my own bottle of soda or beer, I went to my truck and sat for a good hour and a half, drinking whiskey and listening to Garth Brooks.
It got a little fuzzy when I went back to town.
They were all sitting around that campsite set up by the church, I waved as I passed, slowing down enough to do a head count, they were all there. No one would be at either of my destinations.
I said I didn’t want to go back to Buscio’s but I did. I was numb enough from the alcohol to acknowledge the smell and ignore it in the same breath.
Funny how the one place we didn’t load bodies was the basement and that was where I went. Buscio’s was a huge wooden building, at least a hundred years old.
I carried my boxes in through the receiving doors, and near the stairs, I placed the compressed ink canister on the stairs, saturated a trail of papers with printer press fluid and before I walked out, I lit them.
I wasn’t sure it would even work. I never saw how flammable the ink of press fluid was, I heard about it. There once was a huge fire in China at a printing press and Connor used that story as a w
arning.
Yet, I witnessed it first hand, those papers lit up leaving a blazing trail to the canister on the stairs.
I left.
Both the funeral home and Municipal Buildings were far enough removed that the flames wouldn’t spread elsewhere in town, I hoped.
Of course, I wasn’t really thinking clearly.
My plan was, by the time they realized the funeral home was on fire, I would be done with the Municipal Building.
However, I ran into a slight problem.
I had carried the remainder of supplies into the Municipal Building, through the back door and got that started right away. One too many canisters I suppose, because I barely got in my truck when the huge boom of the explosion rang out.
Standing at my open truck door, I watched the flames shoot high from the Municipal Building. As demented as it was, I choked on a laugh. It was crazy, yet seeing that gave me a sense of relief.
I reached in the truck, grabbed my bottle from my seat, and took a swig as I watched the fire for a few seconds.
The moment I saw everyone run down the street, I waved then got back in the truck.
I drove off.
Unlike when I took Maranda’s life, I wasn’t running away in a panic, or confusion, my mind was clear. I was driving to just drive.
Unsure how long I’d be gone, if I was going for an hour or a month. I knew it was time to find out what was happening beyond the confines of Sweetwater and High Water.
Down an open highway, slightly inebriated, cold spring wind whipping in the open window and Garth Brooks playing, I made my way to Nashville. It was as good a destination as any.
FIFTEEN – HEADS UP
My father played guitar. Whenever I thought of him, he was always holding that guitar. Either it was in his hands playing practice riffs or slung over his shoulder. It was an extension of his body. I’m sure he had ambitions to be a great country star or something like that. I envied his talents. I envied how, even though he worked a full time job fixing cars, he was able to follow his passion every weekend and play in his band.
Sometimes my mother would go, sometimes she wouldn’t.
I wanted badly to follow in his footsteps, play the guitar and sing like him. But I didn’t have the patience, the talent or the finger strength, so I just absorbed what he did.
Needless to say, music was a big part of our upbringing. No song was too old or too new.
Music was music.
I listened to it all the time and so did Daisy.
When my sister was a little girl, my dad used to sing this old Wayne Newton song to her, “Daddy don’t you walk so fast,”
For some reason, Linda hated it. She would yell out, “Stop!” and my dad would laugh.
I never found a song that my Daisy hated, she just loved music.
“Daddy, sing with me. Daddy dance with me,” she’d say and I’d oblige if I could.
She wasn’t a fan of Garth Brooks though, which baffled me because who didn’t like Garth? Daisy was still young though and I figured she’d love him when she got older, like I ended up loving Conway Twitty and Glen Campbell. Artists before my time, like Garth was before hers.
Daisy’s time to appreciate the music would never come. Maybe that was why I listened to Garth, it wasn’t something my daughter listened to so therefore I didn’t have memories.
When I drank, I thought, I wallowed in the thoughts to the point they made me crazy, so I drank some more.
Eventually I’d stop drinking or die from it, one of them would happen.
Driving while drinking was pushing my luck. Russian Roulette behind the wheel of a truck.
Torching the buildings in High Water didn’t just reset the dead body count, it reset my drunk and had a weird sobering effect on me. I stopped for gas, grabbed a six pack and continued on.
Of course, I was glad I wasn’t trashed, getting gas meant authorizing the pumps, and it gave me a chance to see the smoke rising in the distance from my town. It wasn’t an abundance, but enough to let me know things were burning.
My phone still worked, and no one called.
Not sure why I was expecting the Chief to call and blast me.
He didn’t.
It didn’t dawn on me that something went wrong, that maybe I caused more problems than I anticipated.
None of that crossed my mind, I was far too deep in a selfish, self-destructive mode.
The drive to Nashville was nearly three hours. The second round of drinking started hitting me just as I neared my exit ramp to the Costco distribution warehouse.
It was as I approached the exit, I caught a glimpse of the top of the skyline of downtown Nashville. Daylight was waning and the city just was so dark. It gave that ‘black out’ feel. Still and quiet.
Not a car on the highway, no one to be seen.
Ninety-nine point five percent of my town’s population had died from the ARC reaction. Ninety-eight percent of Sweetwater. Still, Nashville was big. Even with one percent surviving there had to be a light, a car. Yet, nothing.
I had been to the distribution center when it first opened, it had been a good year and I had to rely on a foggy, alcohol induced memory to get there. But my memory, even intoxicated was flawless.
That distribution warehouse was imbedded.
The one and only time I was there was when I applied for a job and had to interview. The print shop that I had worked for looked like it was going under. Business was dying. Conner told us to start looking.
I did. I got the job, but then in a strange irony, our print shop got the bid for the Costco mailers and that saved the business.
There I was again, headed to the distribution warehouse because things were bad in High Water. I wasn’t convinced we needed to ration like we did.
Going to people’s homes and taking their food seemed almost sacrilegious to Chief Fisher, he acted highly offended whenever I mentioned it.
Costco would suffice. Heck, I probably could live in that warehouse.
It was located off the exit, a mile down the road. It had its own road that led to a fenced in perimeter.
The gate was closed but unlocked.
I stumbled out and opened it, then drove through the large employee parking lot.
There was power in that part of the city, at least at the distribution center. With the sun setting, the parking lot lights were in that ‘warm up’ phase of amber.
There were trucks around one of the buildings, some even backed up to the loading docks of the building.
Until I figured out what I was getting or even what I was doing, I pulled right up front.
Of the three buildings, the center one had an extension, a small reception area, with glass double doors. I assumed they’d be locked, that I’d have to break in, but I didn’t.
The light was on above the entrance, but inside the lobby was dark. However, at the end of the lobby area, directly in front of me, I could see light peeking through the tiny windows of the interior double doors.
There was no smell of death and I welcomed that. It didn’t even smell musty.
As soon as I pushed open the set of doors, I stepped into a larger room just before the warehouse portion.
There were boxes in that room, a few with the flaps open, not any in a particular order. When I looked in the first box, I knew someone had packed them to stock up. They probably went to the center and left the boxes forgetting why they came. When it happened, half of the people I knew had a slow start the other half went over in a snap of a finger, leaving things undone, still cooking, then wandering off.
I took a peek inside the boxes. They were filled with all sorts of items. Canned meat, snacks, ramen noodles. I counted seven boxes. I was on the fence about returning to High Water, still maybe I’d leave, but taking that food to town would be a good gesture. It wouldn’t make up for burning things, but it would show I cared.
Then again, the Chief could say to me, “Take those boxes of food you thieving, arsonist and shove them
up your ass.”
It wouldn’t hurt to try. Maybe just leave the boxes and go.
I carried them all to the truck, loaded them in and secured them with bungie cords, all while sipping on those beers not thinking of the effects. After I was done, I could have driven back the three hour trip, instead I decided to completely sober up before taking a dark highway.
Two sheets to the wind and a belly full of whiskey and beer, my head was spinning a bit and my eyesight blurry.
Just for a couple hours, that was all I needed. I got back in my truck, turned on the music, cranked up the heat, then closed my eyes and rested my head against the back of my seat.
It was short lived.
Listening to Garth wasn’t as much of a salvation or safety net from memories as I thought, he was, until that last song.
The Dance
Usually, I listened but didn’t really hear what was being sung. Never did I pay attention to that song.
There were several types of drunks. Angry, happy, flirty, emotional. I was never any of the good ones.
Hearing the words to that song just snapped me from the cab of the truck to my home, the last time I was there.
My last moments with Daisy.
My last dance.
The Dance.
I had done everything I could. Everything that would make my final days with Daisy everything we both needed. Even if she didn’t know.
I dropped the ball with Maranda, was blindsided with Beau, but with Daisy, I had a chance. I knew what was coming.
She wore her favorite pajamas, we stayed in her room because that was her favorite place on earth. Pink and purple designs on the wall, white bedroom furniture with typical little girl curtains and bedspreads. Wall to wall stuffed animals and dolls all with a name. Names she gave them.
I played her music constantly. Fed her, wiped her down, kept her perfect and I kept her in my arms. I wasn’t letting go until I absolutely had to.
She transitioned fast, too fast. That last day, her tiny mouth stayed agape as she gasped for air every few seconds because she stopped breathing, eyes wide and barely blinking.
Last Dance at the End of the World Page 11