The Seventh Day

by Scott Shepherd

  A huge gust of wind swept across the boat deck. It was so powerful, Secundo reached out for the mast pole to avoid falling. Which left the siblings staring at each other, their fallen brother lying between them like the boundary line between this life and the next.

  “We just need to find a doctor,” Primo said.

  Secundo began to laugh. “A doctor? Have you seen anyone in the last month besides that lying runt?”

  Secundo spoke the truth. The farther they sailed into The Flats, the fewer Remaining they had encountered. The wiry man who claimed to have found cells had been the first person they had run across in weeks.

  “Oh my God!”

  The yell caused Primo and Secundo to look up at the crow’s nest. Trey was pointing directly ahead of them. “Get a load at the size of that thing!”

  There was another sign: You Made It! The words poured from the odd mouth of the now-familiar painted pinto that held up its own sign for Hill O’ Beans.

  But what drew their attention was the gigantic bean, which was nearly the size of the ship. Heavy coats of desert dust dulled the matted finish. It towered over a wooden building that hadn’t seen a coat of paint for at least a couple of decades.

  Primo ordered Secundo to bring the boat to a halt. By the time it stopped, the pirate ship was a good fifty yards past the building. Trey climbed down from the crow’s nest and stood at the ship rail, staring in awe at the huge pinto bean.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “You do know that isn’t a real bean,” Secundo pointed out.

  Trey nodded, hypnotized. “It’s magnificent.”

  Secundo shared a look of disbelief with Primo. On this they could agree—they were always amazed at the bizarre things that fascinated their brother.

  Primo pointed at the sign on the side of the weathered building. Eighty Varieties of Beans. Hot and Cold Beverages. Supplies. “Let’s check it out.”

  “You go. I’ll stay with Quattro,” said Secundo.

  Primo eyed the knife on his brother’s belt. “You’re coming inside with me.” His tense tone made it clear—no way was Primo leaving his wounded brother in Secundo’s care. Secundo smartly realized there was no point in restarting the argument. Trey agreed to remain with Quattro, so Primo and Secundo entered the store moments later.

  Surprisingly, it hadn’t been ransacked, though there were hardly any dry goods. The store still held the faint odor of slightly old navy bean soup, a combo of comfort and medicine, like a tried and true recipe that had been left out just a bit too long. The shelves were orderly, with carefully inscribed cards identifying each type of bean. Primo quickly bypassed them and rummaged behind the counter.

  He ripped through numerous drawers and shelves in a matter of seconds. The pickings were slim: mostly empty bags that once contained some sort of legume. Secundo grabbed a handful of soybeans and munched away for a couple of seconds before spitting them out.

  “Ugh. Rotten.”

  Secundo noticed a cupboard on the wall and ripped the cabinet door off its hinges. He brushed aside a number of coffee mugs and came up with a rusted metal box.

  “First aid kit.”

  Secundo tossed the box across the room. Primo snatched it out of the air and snapped it open. He combed through the contents—a few Band-Aids and a measly strip of gauze. “There isn’t enough in here to stop a nosebleed.”

  Primo hurled the kit against a wall, where it smashed to pieces.

  “It’s pointless, Primo. I’m telling you. . . .”

  “Don’t start.”

  Another go-round between the brothers was avoided as the back door crashed open. Trey barreled inside, tugging an extremely fat man. “Look what I found tryin’ to sneak out the back.”

  The obese man wore Bermuda shorts and a mismatched Hawaiian shirt that were so bright that Primo had to practically squint. His right arm was in a cast up to the elbow.

  “This your place?” asked Primo.

  “Um. Sorta.”

  Trey’s eyes immediately lit up. “You mean that’s your bean out there?”

  “Not really. It kind of just came with the place.”

  Trey was suddenly disappointed. “So, you don’t know if it’s real or not.”

  “Enough with the bean!” snapped Primo. He turned back toward the garishly clad man. “Where’s the person who owns this place?”

  “Gone.”

  “You know that for a fact?” asked Secundo.

  Hawaiian Shirt shook his head. “I’ve been here almost a year. No one’s come back to claim it. So, I just took it. Squatter’s rights and all.” He eyed the three brothers nervously. “You’re not thinking of staying, are you? Because I don’t reckon there’s enough food for all of us. Plus you really gotta develop a hankering for beans. It takes a while, believe me . . .”

  “Shut up!” yelled Primo.

  The fat man backed up into a wall. He waved at the shelves. “Look! I told your buddy here. Take what you want.”

  “What I want is a doctor.”

  “Sorry. Don’t have one of those.” The man began to shake. “I’ve only seen five or six Remaining the whole time I’ve been here.”

  Primo grabbed him by his cast. “This just happen to drop out of thin air?”

  He yanked violently on the plaster and the man screamed.

  “Ohhhh. You mean that doctor.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  The fat man made the mistake of hesitating before offering up an answer. Primo twisted the man’s good arm hard. The resulting howl barely covered up the sound of the breaking bone.

  “What’d you go and do that for?” Tears streamed down the man’s face and pools of nerve-wracked sweat erupted all over his Hawaiian shirt.

  Primo leaned in closer and spoke with ice-cold fury. “Where do I find him?”

  A blast of cold air filled the room.

  Something crackled.

  The squatter looked down in horror at his shirt. The sweat stains had begun to harden. He rapidly tried to shed the shirt but it had already stiffened so much that it adhered to his body and he was unable to move. Crystals began to form, and within seconds the tropical pattern was covered in genuine icicles.

  The man stared at Primo in absolute horror.

  The freezing wind was coming off the black-bearded brother.

  But it didn’t seem to bother Primo in the slightest.

  Just one more thing he couldn’t explain that had been happening since The Seventh Day.

  4

  “Michael?”

  Fixer waited for a reaction. But got nothing.

  “Peter? How ’bout Simon? Is your name Simon?”

  Joad didn’t even bother turning around. He kept his focus on the vast desert spread out before them. “You figuring on going through all the Apostles?”

  Fixer was so stunned to hear Joad actually respond, he almost fell off the back of the horse. “It’s a place to start.”

  “Well, stop.”

  “Man of mystery, huh?”

  Joad kept urging the horse forward.

  “Don’t matter. I got you figured out,” said Fixer.

  “Is that right?”

  “Bet you got some raw deal, blamed for something you didn’t do. Probably killed someone, right? You had to shove off—but now you’re headed back to get your revenge.”

  Joad grunted.

  “Pretty much nailed it, didn’t I?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I liked that movie when I saw it.”

  “Yeah. Well. You’re not giving me much to go on.”

  They had been riding for at least a couple of hours, and in all that time had not seen a single living soul. No surprise; Fixer was used to not seeing a Remaining for days, sometimes weeks. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. Usually, when he encountered someone it ended badly—his brush with the brothers wasn’t the first time he had been left dangling (this time literally) from a rope.
r />   It was one of the many reasons Fixer had chosen to avoid what was left of the cities. The Strangers had cleaned them out, and the Remaining that decided to linger weren’t people Fixer had any interest in getting to know better. The wide-open spaces, of which there were now plenty (thanks a lot, Strangers), held a much greater appeal.

  Stretches like The Flats were basically unchanged. If anything, they were more beautiful than ever—fewer people meant fewer opportunities to transform the landscape into a toxic wasteland.

  “Headed anywhere in particular?” Fixer asked.

  “Other side of The Fields.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Nemo.”

  “Is that home?”

  Joad nodded, still not turning around. “It was. I haven’t been back.”

  Fixer’s eyes widened. “Since The Seventh Day?”

  “Nope.”

  “You might not find much.”

  “I left my wife there.”

  “Still. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  Joad finally slowed his mount and turned to face Fixer.

  “I can’t afford to think that way.”

  “Where you been all this time?”

  “On The Other Side.”

  “Doing what?” asked Fixer.

  “Trying to get home.”

  “For seven years?”

  “Traveling eight thousand miles isn’t as easy as it used to be.”

  No disputing that, thought Fixer. Trains, planes, automobiles—all Gone. The Strangers made sure of that. And the power, electricity, and resources needed to make more went right with them. Crossing the ocean from The Other Side could easily take the better part of a lifetime.

  “Get me a horse and I’ll help you get back to Nemo.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Even someone like you shouldn’t head up through The Fields alone.”

  It seemed the gravity in Fixer’s voice and the troubled look in his eyes caused Joad to glance his way.

  “Just think about it,” urged Fixer.

  They were still crossing The Flats three hours later when they came across the Mack trucks.

  Or what was left of them.

  They had once been twenty-four-wheeled rigs; one hauling crates of apples, the other dozens of assemble-yourself cribs. Forever blended by a head-on collision on the road that bisected The Flats, one of many similar incidents that took place on The Seventh Day. The drivers’ fates were anyone’s guess. The apples had been gobbled up by the first Remaining to pass by. The porta-cribs were never put together, but the wood was used as campfire kindling. The trucks’ burned-out skeletons lay tangled in the middle of the road, like two fallen dinosaurs that had come crashing down during the Ice Age, only to have their bones thaw out centuries later.

  “Would’ve caused quite a logjam,” Fixer said, staring at the truck boneyard. “Probably backed up traffic for miles and miles.”

  Just as Joad started to navigate around the ancient wreck, something huge and gray darted directly in front of them.

  Joad’s horse whinnied and fell back on its hind legs. Joad was able to settle it down, but Fixer’s eyes were transfixed on what had almost sent them crashing to the desert floor.

  A majestic gray mare romped across the plains, running full tilt across The Flats.

  Fixer looked up to the heavens and mouthed thanks.

  “Ever seen such a wonderful sight?” asked Fixer.

  “Wouldn’t have looked so nice if my horse had ended up breaking his legs.”

  Fixer disregarded the complaint. “Man, she’s quick. How do you suppose we catch her?”

  “There you go with the ‘we’ again.”

  “You want to be rid or me or not?”

  Joad responded by shoving Fixer off the horse.

  He hit the ground with a thud, then rolled over and held his aching rib while watching Joad take off after the runaway gray.

  It was quite a thing to behold.

  The gray mare, immediately aware of the approaching horse, kicked into a higher gear. But Joad’s steed was stronger and continued to close the gap. Pretty soon, Joad was running alongside the mare.

  He stood in the stirrups, like a rider from an old-time Wild West Show, and measured the distance between his horse and the mare. Joad urged his mount to get as close as possible until he was able to crouch in the saddle, push off the stirrups with all his might, and hurtle through the air.

  Fixer held his breath as Joad landed on the back of the galloping gray. He let it out in a gasp when Joad started to slide off the mare, but caught it again after Joad grabbed hold of the mare’s mane and pulled himself back up.

  Miraculously, Joad was able to straddle the horse. Initially, the mare tried to fight him, but Joad had her calmed in less than a minute.

  Fixer stood in awe of Joad’s horsemanship and was actually tempted to start applauding.

  Oddly enough, someone had beat him to the punch.

  Joad and Fixer whirled around, surprised that someone else was out on The Flats.

  “Thank you, thank you! Thank you for rescuing her.”

  They were even more stunned when a girl with strawberry hair, cut pageboy short, emerged clapping from the Mack truck wreckage. Twelve, maybe thirteen years old, she was tomboyish but a sure bet to be a stunner by the time she hit sixteen. Spare radio parts from the Mack trucks were tucked under one arm.

  Joad trotted by Fixer on the gray mare.

  “Guess you’re not getting a horse after all,” he muttered with a slight grin.

  Fixer whispered one last desperate plea. “We still have time to ditch her.”

  Joad paid no heed and steered the mare to its rightful owner. The girl threw her arms around the gray and cooed with happiness.

  Fixer felt quite different.

  The world might have basically ended, but some days still sucked worse than others.

  NORMAN

  Never again.

  Standing on the window ledge, staring at the gathering crowd below, Norman backed up until he was flush to the brick building. Clutching the metal strongbox to his oh-too-bright pink shirt, he swore this was the last time he would let something like this ever happen.

  He would die before he let himself get caught again.

  Of course, he needed to squeeze out of this hairy situation first.

  It was humiliating enough that he’d ended up at Donut World to begin with. Unfortunately he didn’t have much choice. Most employers wouldn’t even let him fill out an application; he had that look about him. And when they did, it was that damn box right over the line where they had you sign your name that always did him in.

  Have you ever been convicted of a misdemeanor or felony?

  He was screwed either way he answered.

  Put down the truth (yes, both actually!) and they’d snatch away his pencil and send him packing. Lie, and they’d run his name through the system and his prison record would come flying out of the fax machine two minutes later—and he’d have to beat it before the authorities showed up to grab him for falsifying documents.

  It was only because Cletus knew this guy who would look the other way that Norman had gotten his foot in the door.

  Stan. Stan, Stan, the Donut Man. That’s what he called himself. Truth was, Stan looked like a giant cruller—rectangular, with lots of folds in his fatty skin. Maybe the nickname was appropriate.

  Cletus said Stan owed him a favor. He wouldn’t tell Norman what kind of debt. “Just go in, tell him we’re related, and Stan will set you up.”

  So, that’s exactly what Norman did.

  He was measured for the bright pink uniform (two sets; that way one could be in the wash while he wore the other) and presented with his badge, in the shape of a glazed donut with the letters N-O-R-M-A-N spread evenly in the donut circle. Stan explained the badge system: the longer your tenure at Donut World, the farther up the ladder you went. You started at Glazed, then moved on to Old Fashioned, and after that,
Twist. If you stayed long enough, you were rewarded with a Fancy badge—and double minimum wage.

  I’d rather be fried in donut lard, thought Norman.

  Of course, it was never Cletus’s intention for Norman to stick around Donut World to earn that Fancy badge. Cletus explained that to him the day he left the house to start work.

  It turned out Cletus had a plan for him and Stan, Stan, the Donut Man.

  Which ended up with Norman standing on a window ledge, with squad cars screeching to a halt six stories below.

  It’s an all-cash business, Cletus told him. You know how many goddamn donuts they sell a day in that place? You’ll have the inside track.

  Yeah, thought Norman. The Inside Track. He had to endure two weeks of torture from Stan before he even got a chance to see where the day’s proceeds were kept. It wasn’t like he was working the counter up front and had access to the cash register. No, you had to be an Old Fashioned to be given that privilege.

  Some privilege. Watching customers stuff their fat faces with cream-filled fancies or getting to argue with them over correct change. Norman supposed it beat working the deep fryer or being stuck on restroom duty—the two tasks to which he was relegated. When Norman groused about how disgusting his duties were, Stan would hold “the favor” he was doing Cletus over him and tell Norman he shouldn’t be so “dang ungrateful.” Didn’t he want to work his way up to Twist so he could get a discount on bakery items and Donut World merchandise?

  No, thought Norman, I’m not interested in discounted donuts. He saw what went into the deep fryers and had no intention of letting what came out of them end up in his stomach. Norman was going to be long gone before he became a Twist. Gone, with a whole day’s take of Cold Hard Cash.

  Well, he got a day’s proceeds all right. And a whole lot more than he bargained for.

  “Norman King!”

  He looked down at the street. A uniformed cop was crouched behind his squad car, barking into a megaphone. The cop squawked his name out again through the device.

  Great, thought Norman. Bad enough to be stuck up here, caught red-handed with the strongbox and nowhere to go. They knew his name as well.

  He didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to figure out how that happened. Standing behind the quickly erected police barrier in his pink Donut World uniform was none other than Stan, Stan, the Donut Man. Norman’s soon-to-be ex-employer was shaking a fist up at him and screaming his name. The afternoon sun glinted off Stan’s Fancy badge, reflecting directly back up into Norman’s face, temporarily blinding him, as if the donuts themselves were seeking vengeance on the man who dared to rip off Donut World.