Those Who Lived

by Poss, Bryant

  Through the lobby area past the first room on the right, he got to the metal door that blocked the entrance to Marshal’s area. Ben reached in the cargo pocket of his pants for his wallet. No matter how worthless it may be now, he just couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. It was one of those things he imagined or pretended to imagine he would need again one day. To toss it away or leave it on the floor from where he’d slept the night before would be to say it’s over. There’s no need for any of it anymore, and he just didn’t want to do it. Pulling out his Red Cross card with O negative printed on it, he smiled and put it back in the sleeve opting for the American Express Gold which had a little more flexibility.

  “Probably accepted at the same number of places now,” he whispered and chuckled to himself.

  Sliding the card between the frame and the door, Ben said a little prayer that the deadbolt wasn’t locked then he arched the card down, sliding it between the faceplate and the strike of the frame. He pulled the door back—it didn’t have much give—and pushed the card forward trying to get the spring-loaded latch on top of the plastic. Leaning forward, pressing the card harder, hearing the latch scrape successfully against the strike, the door slid open without a creak, a smile crawling across his face.

  The first room was ridiculous, everything a person would expect to find in some hidden bunker under the White House. Electronics were all but useless now, but there was a TV no smaller than sixty inches mounted to the wall with speakers underneath, an Xbox on top of that, a PlayStation beside it. Car batteries lined the wall like a long train, wires coming from each one and jerry rigged to an extension cord where the TV and consoles were plugged in. Many other wires led from the batteries through a hole in the wall. Someone must have figured out how to wire all the solar panels Marshal had taken from the elementary school. Glad to see it was being put to good use. Couches lined the other walls, white and black heavy fabric, the kind that grandparents put in the room no one was allowed in, expensive couches. A mahogany writing desk that must’ve taken four grown men to move in here. Several pieces of art hung on the walls, stacks more in the corner. There were literally buckets, old tub basins filled with jewelry, separated only by their material, yellow and white gold, platinum, silver labeled with paper in a crude handwriting. A liquor cabinet stood against the wall, the only priest offering communion anymore. It contained the finest crystal Ben had ever seen, nothing but the good stuff in the cabinet, no blended whiskey here. Cigar boxes on one shelf with rows of books on another. Ben didn’t take this guy to be a reader, but there were some fine cures for insomnia on the wall. The Art of War, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, The Ego and the Id, Mein Kampf, Blood Meridian. Just before the door to the next room were the gun safes, each black with gold writing, doors closed like sentries in a dead world guarding dead things. Ben made his way to them, typing in the code before his last step.

  There was a slight beep followed by a click, and he pulled the safe open. Existence was inside. Ben could only think of anyone living trying to struggle for a foothold of survival in this world. Those people would look for food; they would need medicine. They would need arms. Where was it all now? It was here. Everything important held by this asshole who had more than he could ever use. Fuck this safe. Ben shook the thought from his mind and started looking at the labels. Painkillers, antibiotics, and for kicks he grabbed sleep aids, more Percocet, dumping them all in his bag then turning, but he couldn’t. Something caught his eye and wouldn’t let go. He looked at the door next to the safes. It was closed. He tried the handle. It was locked. Why? Why have a locked door behind a locked door? It doesn’t matter. Just get the medicine and get the hell out. Thank every deity you can think of for getting you this far. You should be dead by now. Why? Why was this door locked? Flexing his jaws over and over, he thought of the children in the pins downstairs, he thought of Lotus unconscious somewhere on a concrete floor. A loud exhale and he pulled out the credit card again.

  The door slid open easily again, no deadbolt. Of course his having done it about a thousand times certainly helped too. It was always better to open a locked door than smash through it in the event you needed it again. Inside this room was something that simply shouldn’t be. At the very most, it didn’t make sense, the sight of a Mr. Rogers set. It looked like a kindergarten room. There was a playhouse for a child in one corner. A kitchen set, mitts hanging on hooks from the wall, a baby stroller with a doll in it, toy food. There was plastic bread, eggs, and butter, plastic knives, spatulas, and an apron that read Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah. In another corner there were blocks. Wooden blocks, plastic blocks, every kind of blocks imaginable. Everything set on mats, foam pads of different colors, the kind that lock together with grooves. The third corner held a reading section, skinny hardcover books. Dr. Seuss, Winnie the Pooh, Where the Wild Things Are. Ben stood in the center looking around by the light streaming through the blinds, black curtains open. What was this room? What was the point?

  “Let me get this straight,” the voice was low and raspy, unmistakable. Ben turned to raise the gun. “Ah bop bop bop, tut tut tut, you know better’n that. You raise that arm, I’ll give you a third eye, boy and you know it.”

  “How long you been watching me?” Ben asked standing up straight, his side to the man.

  “Since you come up from the basement,” he stepped forward heavily but with no sound. He was far too big to move like that. His customary nickel plated .357 held at the hip, but pointed at him, his machete in the other hand. He never went anywhere without both weapons on him. Ben had no doubt of his marksmanship even with the pistol like that. “So, as I was sayin. Let me get this straight, you slip away while two runners are tearin each other to pieces, and Marquez by the way. One of my best went down in case you were worried.”

  “If there’s a hell different from this one, may he roast in it,” Ben said, dropping the .40 caliber at his feet when the man motioned.

  “He he, you always were a smart ass. Which brings me back to my question, why in the holy hell would you come back?”

  “I missed our talks, Jared.”

  The arch of the machete was a blur as the big man swung it with one hand, burying the blade completely into the wooden ball of the bed’s footboard. It was an excellent machete, the kind no one would’ve wanted to spend the money on in the old world. The metal seemed capable of penetrating anything, wood or bone, like nothing more than bread. Two long strides, silent and heavy, brought him within three feet. His fist shot forward so fast Ben had no time to tighten his stomach. It felt like Marshal could’ve grabbed his spine. Ben doubled over, spitting all the contents of his mouth on the floor. Thirty seconds went by before he could inhale.

  “I go by one name and one name only. It’s only because no one else heard you that I didn’t open your skull.” Marshal stepped back, holstering the hand cannon, folding his arms until Ben could compose himself.

  Ben stood up, face red and swollen from being bent over, and arched his back, stretching like he’d just woken up. The man stood a good six inches over him, long sandy blond hair receding heavily. It was curly and clean, a man better suited to this world than the old one. His beard, which he kept shaved close was more gray than anything else, and his eyes were dark green, so much so that the true color could only be determined in sunlight. He was wide in the shoulders and everywhere else, a considerable belly testing the strength of the buttons on his shirt, but it was hard, the belly, like it was a source of power. From the times he’d picked up Ben off the floor, he knew he was strong. Grip like a vice, hands that felt like they were made of stone and covered in sandpaper.

  “You know, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” Ben said, the color leaving his face.

  “What’s that?” Marshal said, turning his ear to hear.

  “Kiss my ass, old man. You hit like a retarded monkey.”

  Mashal laughed heartily.

  “Hot damn, I swear that’s why I can’t bring myself to kill
you,” he drew back his fist, but Ben didn’t move. The big man slapped his own leg instead and laughed loudly. “It’s nothin to keep the rest of these fools in check, but you’re of a different breed. A retarded monkey? Where do you come up with this shit?”

  “I’ve spent too many nights locked up in a cage like a damn animal thinking this shit up. Locked up like you do those children down there. Children! Sleeping on the floor, shitting in the corner.”

  “Hey, those rooms are cleaned every day,” Marshal said as if offended.

  “Cells, dickhead! Those aren’t rooms! And what the hell is this shit?” Ben motioned around the room in which they stood. “What, you bring them up here and teach school? Or is this some kind of fantasy set? Do you watch them?”

  Marshal’s face went sober, and Ben dropped down to grab the .40 caliber at his feet. The last thing he saw was the knee coming for his head. Man moved too fast to be so big.

  . . .

  His shoulders were on fire off in the distance, but he couldn’t understand why. Head swimming, was he on something? Had he taken something? Felt like he’d taken six too many Benadryl and washed them down with bourbon. He couldn’t remember what he had taken or when he’d been asleep. Was he asleep? The sensation just wasn’t the same. It could be a dream, all of it, but he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he should stop thinking about it. Yes, just let it go for now. As his head dropped further down, his chin on his chest now, he let the unconsciousness take him if for no other reason than to help his shoulders stop hurting, stop screaming at him to drop his arms. It came, not a normal slumber, but something that helped. He let it take him to wherever he would go—

  My mother was a saint, and my father was an sinner. Asshole, I mean asshole. Maybe his being such made my mother saintly, but I don’t think so. I think she would’ve been a saint next to Jesus. Anything and everything I wanted as a child she saw to it I had. My father left when I was six, and she let it tear her up for about a week. I remember that, a solid week, but when Monday rolled around, she got up and dressed in her best interview attire, made me breakfast, fixed my lunch for school, kissed me on the cheek, and said I’ll be here when you get off the bus. She never shed another tear.

  If I wanted karate lessons, I got them. I wanted a guitar, and she found a way to get one for me. When I got into art, I never went without a canvas. I realized later how much struggle she went through, but that was only because I grew up enough to understand it. As a child, I never knew nor could I have known. That’s how well she covered it up. If there is an afterlife, there’s a special place in heaven for people like my mother and a particular place in hell for ones like old Dad. When the opportunity came around for me to return the favor, I’m proud to say I didn’t hesitate, but I hate that I couldn’t do more for her in the end. That day she died was the same day I found Lotus, a more polarized period couldn’t possibly happen again in three lifetimes.

  “You’re such a good boy, Benny,” her voice was strained, her thin hair grown out only an inch, gray in many places. “I really appreciate your help.”

  “Mom, please it’s the least I could do,” I put the grocery bags on the counter and started putting everything away. “I pretty much make my own schedule now anyway.”

  “How is your job going, Benny? I know you never wanted to be a weekday man.”

  “Mom, I’ve never been afraid of work,” my tone a little too defensive, but it was a sensitive subject.

  “Honey, I know good and well you’re a hard worker. I just know you wanted your art to be your work,” she gave a smile through the pain that had to be there despite the medicine. “I know that’s what you wanted. You’re very good.”

  I smiled, thought about making a comment about a mother bragging on her son’s abilities no matter what, how I could draw yellow dog turds with crayon and she’d call it Rembrandt, but I thought better of it, thought it would take away from her praise.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I smiled back at her. “That means a lot, really.”

  I walked over to her and squeezed her hand. It was like grabbing a bag of sticks kept in the freezer. Three years, and it had eaten her up. They gave her six months. Just goes to show you. My jaw clenched, and a pain came behind my eyes when I grabbed her hand, but I tried to hide it.

  “It’s okay, Benny,” she said, placing her other hand on top of mine. No heavier than a feather.

  “I know, Mom, psh,” I shrugged and tried to play it off. “I just wish I could do more.”

  “You’ve been good to me. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

  She was without a nurse for the second day in a row, and I didn’t know what I was going to do about tomorrow. Most of these pills sold themselves, but I still needed to get around and make some sales. I was pushing it after two days as it was. I looked at her as she watched the television, thinking back to what she’d been through for me and felt ashamed at even having the worry.

  “Do me a favor, Mom,” I took a seat beside her bed, the mechanical back of the frame up so she could see the TV better. “Could we please watch something besides Fox News at least?”

  “And what would you rather watch, that MTV?”

  “Nobody watches MTV anymore, Mom. I’ll tell you the truth, I’d rather watch reality television than this. At least I’d get less drama.”

  “I want to hear more about all this what-to-do down in Mexico? They say some sort of plague or something has started, down near Guatemala.”

  “I’ve been watching this for the past thirty-six hours, Mom. I’ve heard nothing about any plague.”

  “They just started talking about it not an hour ago, before you went to the store. It’s all that’s on. Look,” she switched the channel to CNN. “They’re all talking about the same thing.”

  “Mom, ever since I started working as a pharmaceutical rep, I’ve learned one thing for sure. They blow all these things out of proportion to sell cures, to make money.”

  The fever hit her before lunch. All I could think on the way to the hospital was it had to be me. Whatever it was she was sick with had to have been brought to the house by me. All the trips I took to doctors’ offices, hospitals, nursing homes for my job. All the trips to the grocery store for her. Thinking about it later, I would realize it had to be me, but after I witnessed the scope, would it have mattered? The cancer made her susceptible to anything anyway. Even if she’d been thirty years younger and healthy it wouldn’t have mattered. There was no hiding from it, no escape, but I didn’t know that at the time.

  We were among the first at the hospital, able even to get one of the last regular parking spots. The automatic doors leading into the ER had been propped open because of the traffic, and when I got inside with her, the initial understanding began to sink in. Whether I’d been conditioned by all the post-apocalyptic movies and books or desensitized by the world’s connectedness and the news, the sight was horrifying and frightening, but I didn’t panic. All I wanted was to help my mom. Maybe I handled it so well because I was preoccupied. Perhaps it was because I didn’t have much to lose. Most likely it was because Mom had died on the way to the hospital and lay lifeless in my arms at that moment, and I really didn’t want to look down to accept it.

  After standing in the corner of the increasingly shrinking waiting room, a CNA in training, his student’s ID pinned to the front of his aqua scrubs, came to me with fear in his eyes and looked down at my mother. Grabbing one of the stick filled bags that was her hand, he felt around the wrist and looked at me then down at her. He looked at me again and snapped his fingers in front of my face. If my hands had been empty, I would’ve knocked him on his ass, but I couldn’t think.

  “Sir, this woman—this woman is deceased,” he let go of her hand and went to get something to place her on I assume, but he didn’t make it back. It was then that the first poky, the first infected to not die showed up. Whether it came in from outside or stood up from a chair where a man used to be waiting, I couldn’t say, but it grabbed the nursing student
by the shoulder, and he screamed from the grip right up until his throat vanished in the teeth of the poky in front of everyone.

  I backed away, hitting a door instead of a wall, nearly losing my balance and my mother in the process, but I was able to keep my footing. I looked around frantically, the image of blood squirting from the student’s neck like a geyser, the only thing I could see. This was the blood drawing room, and there were no people in the sitting area, but through the door that led to the lab, I saw a nurse leaning over someone else on the floor. I sat my mother in one of the chairs reserved for blood draws, the seat reclined enough for her to rest, and I suppose she sits there to this day and will until there’s no tissue left to support her, and her bones fall slowly to the floor, one at a time or in clumps.

  The door to the lab was locked, and I watched through the window as what used to be a nurse, a woman in her mid-forties perhaps pulled the intestines from a man, a fellow nurse, on the floor. He was dead at least. I suppose they both were, but I don’t know enough to make that statement, and I watched as she devoured the tissue like a thick piece of spaghetti, no rush, no crazy ripping and tearing involved. It was a horrifying sight, but I couldn’t take my eyes away. I heard the door open behind me. I was aware of the chaos in the next room, but I didn’t care. All I could do was watch this spectacle in front of me, this woman, or what used to be a woman, chewing and swallowing this man’s intestines, shit coming out of the side of her mouth. I watched for minutes, and she never slowed, never appeared to get full. Would she continue until there was nothing left? Would it? I turned to see the three people who had come into the sitting room while I was watching. None looked infected. I glanced over at Mom and immediately wished I hadn’t. One of her eyes had opened and looked blankly at nothing in front of her. It was then that I realized that there was nothing afterwards, blessedly nothing perhaps.