by Dan McNeill
Chapter 2
With the sun setting, Raymond tossed a few more logs onto the campfire. It was raging now, painting the sandy beach behind their cabin with a carpet of glowing ash and cinder. While the dancing flames of the campfire reminded Po of happier times, Raymond made sure the flames were stoked for a more practical reason. To keep away the wolves.
For Po, it was about family. Everything was. The smell of the fire meant the opportunity to relive fond memories of a time when, for a change, he was an equal in the Bean family. A time when he and his siblings would stay up late eating junk food, playing pranks on their cousins in the adjoining cabin. All in all, they were times when Po was at the center of the action, not because of his disability, but because of his gift. And Po had one hell of a gift.
Po could tell a great story. He got it up from their Grandpa Frank, on their mom’s side. Grandpa Frank was a Harley-riding hooligan who played the fiddle and had partied one time with the Dropkick Murphys - Raymond's favorite band. Raymond had great memories of sitting around the fire pit at their old house while Grandpa Frank used to alternate between telling tales from when he was a punk kid in Dublin and reading from his Amazing Stories collection. It’s probably where Po got his love for science fiction movies – and his gift for spinning his unique brand of yarns.
Raymond passed Po the last can of Green River while the embers from the still smoldering logs continued to glow. Reaching for another log, he looked over at the sun, admiring it as it inched below the horizon of the lake. Normally, Raymond didn’t like to keep Po out past dusk. But today, maybe he could make an exception.
“Ah-hem,” Po said, clearing his throat. “Ready."
“All right, go for it,” Raymond said, munching down the last piece of fish.
Placing his thick hands on his knees, Po heaved his head back and belched while simultaneously singing, "Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced" - Raymond's favorite song by the Dropkick Murphys and the only time Po would allow himself to cuss (since a burping cuss apparently didn't count). He nearly got to “and I only bought her one round” before running out of gas. It might have been Po’s personal best.
Po rested his Superman doll on the red cooler that sat between him and Raymond. "When are we going to go back and look for Abe again?" he asked.
"I dunno," Raymond said. "Maybe right after the last snow."
"That's what you told Po last year Waymond. We can do it you know. Everyone needs saving you know."
Raymond got up and ducked behind a tree, pretending he had to go take a piss. He hated this conversation. Despised anything really that had to do with Abe. Why would they want to risk what they had here to rescue a coward.
He also hated it because he knew Po was right. Before his mom died, before she took her last tortured, plague-filled breath, she sang to him. Just a song. No philosophical one liners. No heartfelt final words of wisdom. Just a song.
What a Wonderful World. At the time, Raymond had no idea why she sang it. It was beautiful, sure. And it was another thing that Po did that made Raymond laugh (Po's Louis Armstrong imitation was a spot-on Yoda). But why that song? And why then?
It wasn't until months later, after the streets grew silent, after even the Death Collectors disappeared, when Raymond figured it out. He and his two brothers sat shivering in their basement going through the last can of food from their supplies. Perhaps to lighten the mood, Po started to sing. To sing mom's song. And Abraham started to cry.
The basement. Years ago. The song was playing on a scratchy old vinyl album from mom's vintage stereo while she vacuumed upstairs. Po was talking to Raymond's G.I. Joes in the rec room while Raymond played video games. Abe was reading Catcher in the Rye. Again.
There was a loud bang from upstairs and their mom started screaming. The three of them raced upstairs to find that dad's old bookshelf and fallen over onto her legs. Raymond could see bone.
"Lift!" she yelled at them. But the book shelf was massive and they were only like nine years old. In those days, Po was short and flabby.
"Lift it!" she yelled again. They looked at each other, put their hands underneath the top shelf and lifted it just enough for mom to shimmy herself out. Abraham called 911.
When he returned, mom pulled them all together in a hug. "Together, you three can do wonders."
Po was the last to let go of that hug. He wanted to keep it going forever. He knew that this moment was perfect and that the second he let go, everyone would go back to their corners to prepare for the next round. The fight between the twins that would never end.
Ultimately, this was what Raymond was trying to protect. Po's innocence. Their mom's memory. Even in some small way, their family's honor, what was left of it anyway, Raymond guessed. Po, in the stories he'd tell around the campfire at night, was the carrier of it all. This is what he would sacrifice everything for. This right here.
Po looked up. It started like it always started. A far off buzzing sound, wheezing in and out like a lawn mower engine starting to go bad. A screech turning into a steady yet pounding wail. When they first started hearing the sound, Raymond thought it could be a misfiring air raid siren. But no. Air raid sirens didn't move.
On this night, the distant sounds seemed to be quieter than normal. But the sounds still were a collection. A swarm of something playing in unison.
Po got up and sat next to Raymond, taking his hand. Po knew. He knew that nothing scared Raymond much but that this sound did. He knew it terrified him. He smiled at Raymond, chugged down the last drop of his soda pop....
"I play in a band..." he belched. "We're the best in the land..." he burped. "We're big in both Chelsea and France..." he gurgled. "I play one mean guitar and..."
That was it. Out of gas again. Po swung his arm around Raymond's shoulders as the screeching sound fell away into silence.
"Crap!" Raymond blurted out. "The water jug. The one you knocked over. We need to go fill it up before it gets too dark, else you’ll have to drink lake water for breakfast!"
"Well let's go do it now Waymond," Po said, standing up as Rowdy ran to his side. "Po'll need time to tell you the story!"
Nodding in agreement, Raymond slung Remmy over his shoulder as he let Po and Rowdy lead him up the long sloping hill back to the main road. Po pulled out his Superman doll for some extra protection. With the glow of their fire pit disappearing back by the shoreline, the dark shadows of empty cabins filled the void. So much had changed here.
Vegetation unchecked grew wildly now in the strangest of places – thorny red roses popping out from the front seat of a yellow Ford Mustang convertible, an apple tree growing out in the middle of a back yard hot tub, sunflowers drooping over a port-a-potty in front of a half-constructed cottage. From within the crumbling foundation of the old Peterson cottage Raymond could now pick blueberries. A baby birch tree had even sprung up in the pool house of the O’Toole cottage, where her mom and the ladies would play bridge in the summers while Po played X-Box with Mrs. O’Toole’s son Connor.
Po and Connor were best friends – and not just because they both had Down syndrome. When they weren’t playing video games at Connor’s cottage they were out running around Lake Como catching frogs that Connor would toss into the oversized black cowboy hat he always wore. Sadly the O’Tooles only lived up here in the summers and were back in Illinois when the virus hit. Raymond had guessed Connor didn’t survive. Another sadness he kept buried in silence.
“Stop Po!” Raymond grunted, grabbing Po by the arm as he forced him back behind a row of wildly overgrown hedges. A herd of dark shadows were making their way up the street.
Horses. Four of them. Raymond stopped holding his breath. He'd seen this bunch before. Part of the clan that came from the old stables on Lee Street.
Stepping over twisting vines that marked where Lincoln Avenue used to be, Rowdy headed north past a block of cottages that Raymond never ventured into anymore – not since he saw bears there three mo
nths ago. Raymond took another cautionary look around, instinctively passing his hand over the butt of his rifle. He’d long-since taken from the homes anything they might need to survive. As far as he was concerned, if the bears could make use of the flat screen TVs and cedar-planked hot tubs, they were more than welcome to them.
Before long, Rowdy had led them to the old hand crank water pump. The “Laughing Well”. That’s what people from Lake Como used to call it. Raymond didn’t remember why, but he did remember Gramps taking him to the pump when he was a child. Back then, it had been painted fire-engine red, but over the years, most of that had chipped off, revealing a scratchy sort of gun metal gray.
Approaching the pump, Po bent over and held the big plastic jug under the rusty spout as Raymond began pumping the handle. It took a few seconds for the water to come up from the well.
The water came out, first in squirts, then in gushes as Raymond pumped the handle. Po held the jug firmly as it filled. Gathering water was a one-person job, but Raymond always was sure to give Po a role in everything. In days like these, they all needed a sense of purpose.
When the jug was filled, Raymond pulled it aside, letting the pump run a little longer so Rowdy could quench his thirst. He tossed his hair back behind his shoulders and gave Po the thumbs up. “I hope you ate your spinach this morning Po-Pye, because you’re carrying back the bucket. I’m taking a break.” With that, Raymond sat down on the large old rock next to the water pump, rested his rifle by his side and stretched out.
“Po-Pye! Ha! That's right Waymond!” Seeing that Raymond was taking a breather, Po took it as an opportunity to say his prayers. Grasping the tiny silver cross he wore around his neck between his forefingers, he bowed his head and began to mutter his wishes.
Po's prayers were nearly always the same - not that Raymond always listened in. Unlike most people, it was quite seldom that Po ever asked for things during his prayers. He talked to dead people and past pets. His mom, their dad, their grandparents and a multitude of gerbils, fish and rabbits- Goldie, Hermy, Tony, Buck, Butch and Bob, on this evening. Raymond paid attention last year when Po started adding Abe to his list. Secretly, the addition of Abe to Po's dead family prayer group made Raymond more than a little happy. But he would never say that to Po.
Praying, like mispronouncing his "Rs", was one of those habits that Raymond gave up trying to break Po of. Some battles just weren't worth fighting. As Po threw his Superman doll high up into the air (Po's unique way of making sure his messages were delivered) Raymond stood up, looked around to make sure Rowdy was still lying down next to Po and walked over to the cottage across the street.
The Alamo cottage. Even though Raymond made it a point never to get too personal with the cottages he had to scrounge through for supplies these past three years, the Alamo cottage was different. It seemed to want him to explore it.
With the small and inviting wooden walking bridge that crossed the creek running in front of the home, the Alamo cottage was Raymond's retreat. After a long night hunting, it was a place to hang up his burden of responsibility for a few minutes.
Raymond headed around back, right through the arched walkway that led up to the gazebo. The last of the gardenia's were starting to die off and the wild flowers that grew around the wooden arch had already turned to dried leaves. He'd have to get back here before it got too cold to clear away more of the brush. Out of control house fires. Just another real danger Raymond was responsible for protecting Po from.
Forgetting that for a moment, he stepped up into the gazebo, taking a seat on one of the interior benches. Bending over, he picked up the silver flask he kept hidden there, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. As the warmth of the whiskey trickled down his throat, he threw back his arms and stared up at the pictures lining the inside of the gazebo.
Everyone. Grandpas, grandmas, aunts and uncles. Pictures of nieces and nephews playing near the creek and a wide-eyed toddler holding onto a toad that managed to evade capture by Connor and Po. Birthdays, weddings and family reunions, the Alamo's celebrated it all.
Of course, Raymond had no idea who any of these people really were. Back before the virus, he was aware of the Alamos only in a general, small town kind of a sense. The kind of knowledge you'd pick up by saying hi to each other in the grocery store or waving at as you partied on a pontoon boat. About the only thing Raymond really knew about the Alamos before the Rap came was that they were an old retired couple from Illinois who had a seriously hot granddaughter named Lauren.
Lauren was a dark-haired Italian beauty a couple years older than Raymond who played touch football with him and his friends one year on the beach. During a break in the game, he and Lauren made out behind the concession stands. Raymond remembered just one thing when they got back to the others to finish the game. He didn't get to do nearly as much touching as he wanted.
Raymond looked at more of the pictures, taking another sip from his flask before closing it back up. He didn't know what it was about this place, about these faces and memories that he found so absorbing. It just rang of life. It buzzed. On most days, Raymond was happy the way things were. Life was tough but he and Po got by well enough. He didn't need anyone coming around to muck that up. But sometimes, on some days, he missed the buzz. Or maybe he just missed Lauren Alamo.
Just as he placed the flask back underneath the wooden bench, Rowdy let out a sudden deafening growl. Responsibility came flooding back.
“Waymond!” The scream from Po’s faraway voice punched him in the gut. There was a tremble to it. A sickening desperation.
Raymond ran. Ran like he was running down field with two seconds left in the game and had to score to win.
He couldn't believe how fucking stupid he was. Why did he think it was ok to leave him alone? Why did he wander off? Did he really need to get away? Maybe he was just like his dad, a big prick who'd do anything to avoid being with his family. Raymond was running furiously back to the water pump when he heard Po scream again.
“W-Waymond!” He was sobbing. Stinging, sobbing tears that Raymond couldn't see but could sure as hell feel.
But when Raymond arrived at the water pump no one was there. Not even Rowdy. Frantically, Raymond looked around in all directions, noticing footprints in the grass which led into the forest. Clutching Remmy in one hand, Raymond punched through a patch of daisies growing criss-crossed along a small hill and tore into the woods.
He was running blind, the faint glimmer of sunlight blocked fully by the tall trees and overgrown towers of brush. There was a once well-traveled footpath here that Raymond could barely make out. Raymond followed it, close enough to hear his older brother’s whimpers while dodging branches. Where was he!
Then, there he was. But he wasn’t alone.
For a brief frozen moment, Raymond was stunned. He and Po hadn’t seen a single human being since Abe ran away nearly three years ago. Raymond made sure of that. But now, as Raymond hid behind the thick cover of a giant maple tree, he stared silently as three figures marched along.
Covered in tarnished white armor, a diamond-shaped cape with pointed tips was mounted to their backs. The cape appeared to be made from some sort of glass or a thick plastic. Where the curves rose above their shoulders, the cape pulsated in soft blue, spreading out wide like wings giving them the appearance of angels.
But these were no angels. A branch near Raymond’s foot snapped, causing the creatures to freeze. Lights on their faceplates suddenly shot violent laser red in all directions, scanning for the sound. The lead soldier pointed its arm in Raymond’s direction. Its hand now changed to a fluorescent flashlight which beamed blue over the dark forest floor. Raymond stayed quiet, pressing himself so hard to the ground that the prickly spikes of sticker bushes jabbed through his worn out Levis.
The creatures moved on, increasing their pace as the clangs of their white armor beat faster. It was then that Raymond noticed there was a fourth angel. This one was carrying so
mething. Something large. Realizing what it was, Raymond's heart dropped while his fists, by instinct, clenched up, ready to attack.
There, no more than four or five yards away from him, was Po, being dragged like a carcass, drooling and stuttering with fear across the forest floor while the other three soldiers marched closely behind, their weapons drawn.
Po seemed to catch site of Raymond’s eyes staring at him through the branches. And he began to sing.
“H-happy birthday to y-you..." he cried out. It was Po's favorite song. And also one that he sang once to the bullies at Glenside when they'd try beating him up. In Po's mind, Happy Birthday was a song that made everything right. Not that it ever did with the bullies at Glenside.
Though in this case, it appeared to be working. The robots stopped. One of them even cocked it's head in the direction of Po's voice. But only for a moment. Before Po could begin the final verse, they were off again. He clutched his Superman in his hands, his two under-grown front teeth revealing themselves through a hopeful smile. He spotted Raymond again. His brother was here to save him.
Raymond knew he only had one shot at this. Ditching Remmy, Raymond rushed towards the monsters dragging away his brother like he was trying to make that game-winning touchdown. Five seconds left...Four…
He pushed through the anarchy of competing forest brush, a mixture of ivy and willow leaves piled amongst three years of untended weeds. Three seconds… The creatures still hadn’t taken notice. But Raymond didn’t care. He was ready. Two seconds. For anything. Just feet now from the goal. Time to fly.
Midway into a flying leap, warm hands grabbed solidly around his ankles and pulled. The last thing he could see before landing face-first on an old pavement brick was Po, reaching out in desperation as he let Superman fall from his hands.
