Dusty's Diary 4: One Frustrated Man's Apocalypse Story

by Bobby Adair

  “What?”

  “The tank you found below deck. It’s not diesel.”

  And the ‘gator was forgotten history. That easy? Whatever! But what choice did I have? "Water? Is that it? Did it leak in?"

  Amelia shook her head. “LNG.”

  “Liquified Natural Gas?”

  "There's a placard down there on the tank. It's covered in crud, so it was easy to miss."

  My ego deflated. I was supposed to be the guy that understood those kinds of things. “I didn’t know marine engines ran on, what is it, propane?”

  “Methane, probably. It’s mostly a new thing, I think.” Amelia looked at the sky, and then scanned the shore. The light was starting to fade. “We might want to get out of the area before we try going ashore. The gunshots probably attracted the attention of the Shroomheads there.”

  I looked at the kayak. It seemed terribly inadequate.

  Amelia shrugged. “I can take the kayak over and fetch the rowboat.”

  A man can be shamed into anything by a girl no matter how old she is. “I’ll do it.”

  January 14th, fifth entry

  It was after midnight by the time we climbed a steep overpass embankment and stepped over the guardrail onto I-10.

  Amelia said, “We should be able to make it to the fairgrounds before morning.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ll have to pick up the pace. Are you up for it?”

  I nodded again.

  “You’re not talking?” She started walking through the maze of cars jammed on the highway.

  “I’m not not talking," I argued. "Just keeping quiet. You know." I waved a hand at the dark suburb spread out below us.

  “You’ve barely said a word since we left the tugboat. Usually, I can't shut you up."

  “I’m tired.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Okay, I’m lying.”

  “Now you’re being petulant.”

  “Okay, I’m petulant.”

  “Why are you stewing?”

  “Who said I was stewing?”

  “Goddamnit.” Amelia planted her feet and spun around to scowl at me. “Are you mad because I killed those people.”

  “No, not really.”

  “Not really? Are you kidding me? They were going to murder you.”

  I heaved a big old sigh and squinched up my face. “Probably. I’m not as certain as you.”

  “You saw the shotgun? The big knife?”

  “I did.” I agreed. “He had that shotgun pointed right at my face. When you were deciding whether to shoot him, how’d you know his finger wasn’t going to flex, pull the trigger, and blow my head off?”

  “Didn’t matter,” Amelia told me.

  “Well,” I said, my voice rising to an unsafe volume, “my life matters to me if you don’t mind.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.” Amelia labored through a sigh. “The shotgun wasn’t loaded.”

  “There’s no way you could have known that?”

  “I knew because of the seabirds.”

  I laughed out loud, thinking maybe the spore had twisted her mind a lot more than I’d let myself believe. Perhaps Aunt Millie had been right to kick her off the barge.

  Amelia grabbed my arm to shut me up and hurry me along. “You need to keep it down.”

  We walked in silence on fast feet for a bit as I started to think through what I knew of Amelia, started to evaluate how crazy she might be. “Seabirds,” I finally snorted, “what do they have to do with anything?”

  “Both those guys and the girl in the boat were too skinny,” answered Amelia.

  I patted my belly. “We’ve all lost weight.”

  “They were emaciated.”

  “We did have an apocalypse thing happen. You remember that, right? You know, everybody died. Infected monsters all over the place. Sound familiar?”

  “How many birds do you think were on that tugboat?” snapped Amelia. “Big fat seagulls and pelicans. Seems to me, anybody with shells for their shotgun wouldn’t have any trouble putting a sea-chicken on the dinner table every night.”

  I wasn’t ready to give up. “They could have been saving their ammo for real danger.”

  “Fasting for safety?” It was Amelia's turn for derisive laughter.

  “Maybe they didn’t want the Shroomies to come get them after they fired the gun. Everybody knows how they come out of the woodwork once you pop off a few rounds.”

  “They didn’t get Millie,” said Amelia. “They didn’t get us. Boats come in handy for keeping away from the infected.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “They were going to eat you,” said Amelia. “After the ugly one killed you with that big knife.”

  "Eat me?" I didn't believe that either. Or, that's to say, I didn't want to consider it.

  “They were cannibals.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “How sickly they were.”

  “You said they were starving,” I argued. “You said that was the reason you knew the shotgun was empty.”

  “They were too diseased for it to only be starvation,” said Amelia. “You didn’t see the sores on their skin? Their eyes? Their teeth?”

  “You diagnosed them from way up there at the top of the ladder? Doctor Amelia, I didn’t know you were so super-magic good at doctoring.”

  “Doctoring?”

  “It’s a word.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. “There's a reason people don't eat other people."

  I laughed again, but I kept the volume down. “I can think of at least a few. Matter of fact, if I had a pencil, I could make a pretty long list.”

  “Would it include disease?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’re a cannibal and you don’t cook the meat sufficiently, you catch any disease your victim had. Pretty much anything.”

  I stopped walking. That had a familiar ring to it. “Seriously?”

  Amelia nodded. “They think that’s how HIV was transmitted from the monkey population to humans. Undercooked bush meat.”

  I shook my head.

  Amelia walked on past me. “C’mon Bush Meat, we need to get to the fairgrounds before sunup.”

  January 15th

  Up early again. Yay, me.

  Dim evening colors glowed through the rows of skylights in the endless metal roof. Below, the American Scamarama was spread in rows over the show barn’s dirt floor, waiting for the next scavenger to mess it up a little bit more. Amelia was still snoring when I’d crept out of the office at the end of the row, the same place we’d slept on our trip from Katy down to Aunt Millie’s barge.

  Back in the lounge area, I scooted one of the shredded couches around to face the main floor. I brushed away most of the rat turds, leaned my rifle against the sofa, laid my pack on one cushion, and dropped my ass onto another.

  I replayed the tugboat massacre in my mind, because I hate taking shit at face value. That’s not to say a nickel isn’t a nickel most of the time, just that over my fifty years living among the denizens of Urban Sprawlandia, I learned that fuckers lie. Shit isn’t always what it seems. People who looked like the bad guys weren’t always bad. Dipshits who looked like the good guys almost never were.

  All that only got worse as the world fell apart.

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it to myself, I had to face the possibility that my pride was hurt because Mister Big Scary Hair and Ass Nugget had gotten the drop on me, and if it hadn’t been for Amelia, I might be roasting over a pile of burning two-by-fours while Rowboat Skank sizzle-fried my mountain oysters in a skillet of rancid fish oil.

  But Amelia did slaughter those bastards like they were Shroomies on the hoof, and she hadn’t shown a flyspeck of remorse. She didn’t second-guess the choice. Didn’t doubt it. She was right, and if I didn’t agree, I could go fuck myself. That was her attitude.

  That kind of certainty always rubbed me raw.
>
  Amelia reminded me of my oldest. Kate was hardheaded like her. Always right. Always willing to argue until you just wanted to pound your fist through the sheetrock you were so mad.

  The eventual ex said Kate and me were two of a kind.

  Maybe that’s why we squabbled from the day she hit puberty until the day she got married. At least it seemed that way. We were still family, though. There were plenty of hugs and pretend smiles along the way. I told her I loved her, not every day, but you know, you do the best you can sometimes. I told all three of my girls.

  I hope they knew it was true.

  I sniffled, and felt for a moment like I might tear up again, like all that black-shit reality of the world might squeeze my throat so tight I might never take another breath.

  I don’t know why I never got over the death of my three girls. Seems like it’s something that should have faded away. Most times, I guess it did. Yet it always comes back to kick me in the head when I’m not expecting it. Maybe grief is like that.

  January 15th, second entry

  “Two days in a row,” said Amelia, as she stepped into the lounge area. “You’re turning into an early riser.”

  “Getting used to second shift,” I told her.

  “It’s still light out.”

  I glanced at my watch. “We can leave in an hour or so.”

  Amelia crossed the lounge area, brushed some crap off of a cushy chair, and took a seat. She fumbled through her backpack and fished out a misshapen pear. The pear didn’t surprise me. Back before the collapse, it wasn't uncommon for people to plant fruit trees in their backyards. Plenty survived without the help of automated sprinkler systems. Amelia wiped the pear on her pants before taking a bite.

  “Worried about pesticides?” It sounded like a criticism, so I smiled to make it a weak joke.

  “Habit.”

  “Is that all you’re having?”

  She looked at me like she was trying to guess the reason I asked.

  I went into my bag and found one of Punchy Bryan’s protein bars and tossed it to her. “The label says it’s food. Can’t tell by the taste, though.”

  “Thank you.” She set the pear aside and unwrapped the protein bar. Once she had it out, her curiosity was captured by the lumpy rectangle. She gave it a sniff, and grimaced. “Looks like a piece of tar.”

  “Told you.”

  She chanced a bite, and then chewed as she took a closer look at the ingredients fine-printed on the foil wrapper.

  And she chewed some more.

  I should have warned her about the way the protein bars stick to teeth.

  “Have you ever read one of these labels?” she asked.

  “I decided I was better off not knowing.”

  “It says it was manufactured here, in Houston.”

  I shrugged, sure it was a false location. There’s no way Punchy would want his customers to know where he was once they tasted food that could last for a century on the shelf. “I don’t like ‘em, but they’re what I’ve got. Plenty back in my bunker, among other things. Once we get down to the Caribbean, it’ll be fresh fish and fresh fruit every day. We should bring some seeds for a vegetable—” Amelia was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “What?”

  “I haven’t agreed to go to the stupid Caribbean.”

  "That's fine." I shrugged like it was no big deal. It was. The Caribbean dream was starting to occupy most of my waking thoughts. It was the answer to everything, the pot of gold over the rainbow. "We can talk about it some more."

  “And what’s with this we thing?”

  “You and me? Us?”

  “We’re not a thing. Not a couple.”

  “That’s gross. I mean, you’re not— You’re pretty…uh…despite…the…uh,” I waved a hand at my head, trying not to say ‘warts.’ “What I mean is, you’re too young. You’re like my daughter’s age. I’m not, I mean—” I took a breath and tried to piece together what I was trying to say. “I mean, we should stick together. Work together, right? It doesn’t have to be more than that. Friends. Coworkers. Not bed buddies. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “I’ve been doing fine on my own.”

  “You don’t think we’ll do better by sticking together?”

  Amelia chose not to answer.

  “I do,” I pushed. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?

  Amelia stood up and walked to the rail overlooking the dusty ground one floor below. “You spent too long in your bunker. You don’t know how the world works now.”

  “Are we talking about Mister Scary Hair and Ass Nugget?”

  “Scary Hair?” Amelia laughed.

  “See?” I said, trying not to sound like I was begging. “I’m good for a laugh, right?”

  “The world isn’t the kind of place for people who laugh anymore.”

  “Is that why you’re always pretending to be a hard-ass?”

  “I’m surviving.”

  “We’re a couple of years into this thing,” I told her. “I’d say we’re both doing a pretty good job at that. Maybe it’s okay to have some fun, too.”

  Amelia turned her back to me and pretended to be interested in the remains of the Americana Scamarama. “You’re too reckless. You haven’t learned to be ruthless. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “And you think I’m going to get you killed, too.”

  “I’m not worried about me.”

  "Yes, you are, or we wouldn't be having this conversation." I took another moment to collect some thoughts into an argument. “I sat in that bunker for two years because I thought staying alive was the most important thing. Since I climbed out of that hole, I’ve come across plenty of infected who wanted to kill me. I’ve met five real humans, one shot at me, three tried to eat me, and you think I’m a doddering burden. I suppose I coulda been killed a dozen times already, but you know what? I learned something when I was sitting by myself in that hole. Staying alive isn’t the same as living. Matter o’ fact, it’s the opposite. It’s nothing different than what I was doing before the fall, zombie-walking through life just to pay a mortgage on a house I didn’t like, getting blasted on the weekends so I could forget all the ass I had to kiss to make it from Monday to Friday, and closing my eyes and pretending my wife was somebody else when we were screwing on Saturday night.”

  Amelia said, “Your life sounds like a country song.”

  “Everybody’s life is a country song. Everybody thinks they’re different—they're not. You’ve been hiding in attics and drugstores. Staying away from people. You weren’t in a bunker, but you were every bit as isolated as me. That’s not life. That’s cowering. Life is what happens when you’re living it.”

  “Oh, that’s profound,” mocked Amelia.

  I ignored the sarcasm. “Life is laughing and crying and talking about each other and missing each other and loving and hating each other and stabbing each other in the back and saving each other from gangs of snaggle-toothed cannibals. One day, you’ll figure that out.”

  I realized I was on my soapbox, and my voice was probably loud enough to be heard outside the thin metal walls. "Sorry. I don't mean to yell at you.” I turned to face her. “I’ve been out here thinking while you were asleep.”

  “About?” Amelia asked.

  “My daughters. The world. All the fucked-up shit, but mostly my girls. I’ll be honest with you, I still cry over them,” and on queue, my eyes brimmed with tears. “I even miss my ex.” I laughed. “How fucked up is that? I miss your parents. I miss—” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. You miss all the same stuff I do. When I opened the hatch on my bunker and crawled out into the world, I did it because I wanted to live. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life cowering. My girls wouldn’t want that, and if they were the ones alive, I wouldn’t want that for them. I’m not going to spend the rest of my days hiding in a hole. I’m moving forward.”

  “To the Caribbean?” asked Amelia. “That’s what you were thinking about? How to
sell me?”

  "No," I claimed. "Most of that, I just realized. No, I realized it again when we were sitting here talking. I’ve decided, I’m going to live, even if it kills me. Even it if kills me because I’m naïve and stupid. I’m going to try for the Caribbean because right now, that’s the best idea an ignorant old man like me can come up with. You’re welcome to tag along, but you don’t have to.”

  Amelia didn’t say anything. She just stared off in the other direction.

  I went back to chewing on the tar-flavored taffy.

  Maybe ten minutes passed. Maybe it was twenty. Finally, Amelia turned and said, “This protein bar tastes like condensed aquarium water.”

  “You should try a big bowl of Punchy Bryan’s bovine buttholes, boiled to buttery perfection.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  “It’s like eating greasy rubber bands,” I told her. “Just the way Punchy’s own grandma used to make ‘em.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes and almost smiled.

  “The label said it was something else, but I think Punchy’s a liar.”

  January 15th, third entry

  When we exited the show barn, Amelia passed the giant Santa and turned south.

  I stopped walking and pointed north. “Highway’s over there?”

  “We’re not going to Katy. Not just yet.”

  I jogged to catch up. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re taking a different route. You hang back a bit once we get into those houses up there. Keep quiet. Let me scout before I wave you up. Lots of wartheads in there. You don’t want to stir them up.” With that, she took off at a jog to put some distance between us.

  Careful, slow, and quiet became the words of the night.

  Just as promised, Amelia scouted the way. I followed. We had to hole up three or four times to wait for marauding gangs of the infected to do their thing and move on. We had to detour twice before getting back on our trek to the south.

  Eventually, we passed through the neighborhood and worked our way into a district of ugly, flat warehouses and enterprises that looked to be in the business of making things they knew would one day rust. Plenty of inventory lay about. Trucks. Pipes. Machines the size of train engines. Augers, rails, fences, and frameworks. And a least a hundred things I couldn’t name.