After the End: Survival
Page 16
As they approached an abandoned farmhouse, the mare snorted and Cathy heard an answering whinny come from some trees in front of the house. A man on a horse came out of the shadows and waited as she rode closer.
"Howdy," said the man. He was clean shaven, about thirty, with a broad smile. "That's a pretty horse you have. And I bet she's fast as the wind."
"She's pretty fast," Cathy admitted. "When she cuts loose it's all I can do to hold on."
"You live around here?"
"Not too far away." She was abreast of the rider now and had pulled to a halt.
"Well, I live right over there," he said, pointing.
Turning her head to look, she was aware of a blur of movement. A crushing blow against her face knocked her to the ground. Painfully, she turned her head, dimly aware of the man standing over her, a short iron pipe in his right hand.
"I think you and me need to get better acquainted," he said.
He dropped the pipe by his side and roughly rolled the girl on to her back. Unbuckling her jeans, he jerked them down to her ankles and tugged off her boots. She kicked at him feebly but only succeeded in making the removal of her jeans even easier for the man.
"Why, thank you, honey that's real thoughtful of you," he said, stuffing her underwear into his jeans pocket. Then he unbuckled his own jeans and dropped to his knees. He spit on his hand, and then caressed his penis. "No reason why this can't be good for both of us."
She felt his crushing weight and a searing pain as he entered her. His mouth pressed hard against hers, and she gagged as his tongue slipped between her teeth. With her nose shattered, she was unable to breathe. Cathy felt a lightness, a release and she knew she was dying. She was not afraid, but only felt regret that it was all ending, and that it was happening this way. Then his mouth left hers, and she could breathe again. Her vision cleared and she could see him above her, his face twisted into something not human. His powerful thrusts became more rapid, knifing into her, he moaned, and she began yearning for the comfort death might bring.
And then it was over. He rolled off and lay on his back next to her.
"That was nice," he said softly.
Cathy lay still for a moment and tried to move.
"Don't you go anywhere," he said, catching her wrist. "We’re not finished yet."
Her other hand felt something cool and hard. It was the iron pipe he had used against her. She grasped it tightly, glanced over at the man, and with all her strength, drew the club across her body, connecting solidly with the man's forehead.
He cursed, reached out blindly, grabbing her arm. She clawed desperately at his face. He snatched at her hand, but she wrenched free. Scrambling to her feet, embarrassed by her nakedness, she grabbed her jeans and ran to Maggie. Panicking, Cathy fumbled at the stirrup for an instant, but then swung up in the saddle.
The man was staggering to his feet, pulling his pants up from his ankles.
"You little bitch, get back here!"
Cathy kicked her bare heels into the mare's sides and rode back toward home, holding Maggie to a flat run for almost three miles before the winded horse slowed to a gallop. It was only when she saw the lights of her house and heard the dogs barking did she stop to put on her jeans.
Her mother heard the horse approach the house and met Cathy at the front porch.
"Honey, what happened?"
Sobbing, ashamed, and confused, Cathy explained.
"M-Maggie g-got spooked by a snake, and she threw me. It w-wasn't her fault!"
"Oh Cathy, look at your face! Does it hurt, baby? Come on inside. James!"
One morning six weeks later Cathy threw up for no reason she could think of. It only took her mother a few days and a few casual questions to put two and two together.
Cathy never changed her story. She never told who the father was.
Not until now.
An hour and a half after they had gone into the exam room, Cathy and Judy came out. James Snyder was in the waiting room, his face anxious.
"Is she all right?"
"You have an exceptional daughter, Mr. Snyder. She's going to be just fine.”
CHAPTER 26
Washing dishes makes for quiet reflection.
Try and tell that to the mothers of the world, Pete thought. They'd hand you a soapy dish rag and say, ‘Reflect to your heart's content. I'm stepping out for a beer.’
Why had David Rodriguez been killed? And what was he doing at the Probation and Parole building, twenty miles from Canyon, looking at files of ex-convicts? That's where things stopped making sense.
"Well, hell, I've got nothing else to do this afternoon. It's a great day for a drive."
Fifteen minutes later he was pulling up to the Probation building. The midday sun was heating things up pretty well and the recent rains made it unusually humid. The glass doors were unlocked and his footsteps echoed loudly down the empty corridor.
He entered the room in which David's body had been found, disturbing the horde of flies attracted to the fresh protein scattered about the room. Pete gagged and had to step out into the hallway for a moment to steel himself. Taking a deep breath, he walked back in the room.
Blood turns black in a hot room. Black flecks surrounded the floor around the desk where David had been seated. The desk was stacked with brown manila folders. The top of each pile of folders was covered with dried blood.
Despite the heat, the smell of blood was faint.
"I hate flies," Pete said, waving his hand over the desk to disperse the buzzing insects.
That was when he noticed there were two rectangular areas that were free of blood. One was an area the size of a manila folder. The other was a small note pad. Pete picked up the pad, flipping through the pages. All the pages were blank. He walked over to a window, and held the top page of the pad to the light, turning it at varying angles. He could make out indistinct letters.
Grabbing a pencil from a desk drawer, he moved the graphite pencil tip lightly over the pad in a rapid, back and forth motion.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said aloud. He recalled the technique from an Agatha Christie novel.
Letters began appearing from the pad as if by magic.
"Hey, it really works! Thank you, Miss Marple."
A name and address. Robert Decker. 932 N. Houston.
There were not many people living in northeast Amarillo. A few months after the Change, a fire had swept through the area. Many of the wood frame homes were destroyed. Over the past three years Mother Nature had begun her patient work of reclamation; hardy young elm trees were growing from cracks in sidewalks and slab foundations. The debris of ruined homes was often hidden by overgrown shrubs.
Pete drove slowly, counting driveways and sidewalks to help keep track of the addresses of vacant lots and broken homes. A coyote approaching the street saw Pete's car and whirled around, fleeing into some brush.
932 Houston was a small white house. A brick veneer came up to window level on the front wall of the home, and the side walls were covered with aluminum panels. A number of shingles were missing from the roof, exposing rotting wood underneath. All the windows he could see were intact. Parking his car, Pete walked up the sidewalk. A storm door lay on the ground, torn off by the wind. The front door was unlocked, and he walked in.
Something dark and furry brushed against his cheek. Pete grunted in surprise and dropped into a crouch, his hands held up to protect his face.
"Shit! Bat!" He exhaled loudly, watching the terrified animal bang against a couple of walls before it disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.
The air was musty. Moth-eaten curtains hung limply from the windows. A green couch, an overstuffed chair and a coffee table filled the living room. A large TV and an expensive stereo were on shelves against a wall. Dust and animal droppings covered everything but the room was fairly neat. Junk mail and a Sports Illustrated magazine confirmed this was 932 North Houston and that the resident had been a Robert Decker.
In
the kitchen, some dishes lay in a dry sink. A few empty cereal boxes and plastic bread wrappers were strewn about the floor. A couple of years experience in scrounging had taught Pete not to bother opening the refrigerator. The bathroom, small and cramped, had a cracked bar of soap laying in the tub and a couple of dusty towels hanging from a bar on the wall. Nothing much in the medicine cabinet, just rusty razor blades and some dental floss.
He walked down a short hallway and into a bedroom. Jammed inside were a dozen televisions, numerous I-Pads, telephones and car stereos. A dozen laptops were stacked in a corner. All this stuff was useless without electricity, so Pete assumed it had all been acquired before the Change. It seems Mr. Decker was in the business of acquiring and selling used electronics.
He walked into another bedroom. An unmade bed, two chairs and a dresser completed the room's furnishings. Pete went over to the dresser and checked the drawers. Sweaters, socks, underwear, the top drawer had some change, and a stack of gift cards.
The closet door was closed. He walked over a couple of steps and opened it.
The human skeleton was complete, in a sitting position against the closet wall. Black, shoulder length hair was still attached to the grinning skull. Although he was not aware of having moved, Pete discovered he was now ten feet away from the closet and was standing in the hallway.
"Dammit, shit, son-of-a-bitch. That's twice in five minutes I've had the shit scared out of me. Shit," he added, for good measure. He stomped around the hallway, noisily hyperventilating. His chest was pounding. It was not unusual for scroungers to find a body in an abandoned house, a victim of the Change. But they were generally found lying on a couch or bed.
After a minute of huffing and puffing, Pete walked back into the bedroom and cautiously approached the closet.
"Yep. Still there."
His interest became professional. He examined the long bones of the arm, near the wrist and shoulder. The growth plates were not complete.
"OK. We got an adolescent."
He checked the shape of the pelvis to try and determine gender, but was unsuccessful. Two small gold earrings lay in the dust on the floor. Most of the teenage boys he'd seen sporting earrings wore only one.
"Probably female."
He looked around the room. In one corner by the bed were some rumpled clothes. Shaking out the dust, he determined they were a girl's jeans and blouse. Shoes and socks were nearby. No underwear.
Back over to the closet. Gingerly standing over the skeleton, he pulled a cardboard box down from a shelf. Inside were envelopes, canceled checks, insurance papers. Pete carried it all to the kitchen table, spreading the stuff out as he went through the contents.
Robert Decker was the owner of an aging Ford Fiesta on which he carried only liability insurance. Paycheck stubs indicated he'd worked almost two months at the AA Paint and Body Shop on Amarillo Boulevard. He was renting the house for $625 a month. Court documents indicated he had been convicted of sexual indecency with a minor. He had served twenty-three months of an eight year sentence when he had been released on parole. He was supposed to meet with his probation officer once a month. If he did not do this, or violated any of the terms of his parole, he would be sent back to a correctional facility, courtesy the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
There was a letter from his mother in Big Spring.
"Dear Bobby," it began, "I was so happy when I found out about your getting an early release. Everyone deserves a second chance in life and this is yours. I know things were never easy for you. We never had much and there were so many things I couldn't give you. But I tried, honey. It just isn't easy raising an active boy all by myself. But we always had each other, didn't we?
"I hope this job your uncle's giving you works out. He's a good man and he always did have a soft spot for his little sister (that's me!!!). The economy down here is terrible as usual, so really, any kind of job is better than none and a change of scene might be just what you need. I sure miss you though. Maybe you can come down some weekend and visit with me. Your old mom would sure like that! I'm still waitressing at that little place across from the V.A. When you come and visit I bet I can sneak you a chicken fried steak!
"Call me when you get your phone.
"I love you and I miss you, Mom."
Even assholes have mothers that love them.
There was nothing here to indicate Robert Decker was still alive. The odd skeleton in an unoccupied house was no big deal.
So why had David Rodriguez singled out Robert Decker?
Pete thought about it as he drove home.
He thought about it as he weeded his garden.
He thought about it as he did laundry.
Then he quit thinking about it, ate supper, sat outside with a warm beer and watched the sunset. When the mosquitoes got too bad, he went to bed.
CHAPTER 27
Sunday morning. What a week. Pete woke up early, had breakfast, and decided to take a bike ride to enjoy some of the lingering coolness. David Rodriguez's funeral wasn't until ten. Plenty of time.
He pedaled north on Souncy, past the mall, and then west along the I-40 access road. He pointedly ignored the ‘Cadillac Ranch,’ a line of seven rusting auto bodies buried nose first in the ground as an object of art.
There's no accounting for taste.
He exerted himself in a sort of masochistic frenzy formerly reserved for businessmen in a crowded spa. He turned south on Helium Road.
I don't do this often enough, Pete reflected. Endorphins. Give me endorphins. Relaxes the body. Clears the mind.
His lungs burned. His eyes stayed focused ten feet in front of the speeding bicycle. Images of Susan Shupe and Laura Benchly flashed in his head, but he pushed them out. David Rodriguez smiling at Yolanda as she served him stew. The image of his own wife, Thanksgiving, the whole family sitting down to dinner. Jay Flood, arguing with his nurse, Latesha. Those two sure work well together. Mayor Blakely, talking to Brenda Farley. Something between them. Something he hadn't noticed before.
Then the image of a smirking skeleton as he opened that closet door. Jeez, that was freaky. Robert Decker could probably spin a tale or two.
Robert Decker. Thirty two years old. Ex-con. Worked at a body shop that was likely owned by his uncle. Would I hire a nephew that preferred kids as sexual targets?
Family. The tie that binds.
As in strangulation. A vision of Susan Shupe's swollen tongue intruded. Pete pushed the image aside.
It's not polite to interrupt.
So, back to Robert Decker. Who was his uncle? Getting saddled with a dip-shit for a nephew must have been quite a cross to bear. AA Body and Paint Shop.
Pete turned into the driveway of an abandoned home. White clapboard, surrounded by trees. The front door was partly open and he walked in.
Piles of dead leaves were collecting in corners. A layer of red dust covered everything. Pete found the phone book on a kitchen counter.
AA Body and Paint Shop was the first listing in the Yellow Pages under Automobile Body Repairing and Painting. "For More Information, See Advertisement This Page."
The display ad showed a little map of where the business was located. "Insurance Claims Welcome." "Unibody Frame Repairs." "DuPont Paints." In the corner was a picture of a sports car on an alignment rack. Just below that, in small letters, "Robert Westlake - Owner."
Pete stood motionless, stunned. Then he carefully closed the book and walked outside. Stiffly, he got on the bike and began pedaling mechanically.
Sheriff Rob Westlake, the former owner of a body shop, had hired a convicted pedophile. Robert Decker was his nephew. Was Decker still alive? He'd know in a couple of hours. Westlake would be at the Rodriguez funeral.
Pete pedaled home, took a quick shower, dressed, got in his car and headed south.
The Dreamland Cemetery is off Farm to Market Road 2590, just south of Canyon. Privately, Pete thought it was an odd name for a cemetery, but had to admit it was a pretty place.
Yolanda looked drained. Her black dress fluttered a little in the breeze. Her young daughter was next to her, held by a buxom older woman with the resolute look of someone who's been though a lot of funerals and was going to get through this one, too.
Pete surveyed the crowd. The lawmen attending, about a dozen all told, were in a group near the preacher. They were staring sternly at David's coffin. The mayor was there. Pete was surprised to see James Snyder and his family, standing off by themselves at the edge of the crowd. Judy Gilliam was near them. Pete moved next to her.
"Hi," he said. She gave him a little smile, taking his hand and squeezing it once. James Snyder looked over and nodded solemnly.
"What are you doing here?" he whispered.
"Sshhh," she explained.
The preacher cleared his throat and began.
"David Armando Rodriguez was everything you'd want in a man. He was honest, intelligent, and a hard worker. He believed in service. He'd help anybody. It didn't matter if it was part of his job or after hours. He treated everyone he met with respect, no matter who they were or what the circumstances. I'll tell you a story about David, and this one's real personal. First time I met him was two and a half years ago. I was drunk and on a tear. I was ready to fight anything and everybody. David walks up to me and says, ‘Did you hear the one about the Aggies riding a bus through the country? One of them says, “Look at that cow with one eye!” and everyone on the bus looks out the window with a hand over one eye.’
"Stupidest joke I'd ever heard. And it cracked me up," he said, smiling.
"You know, David could have just knocked me up side the head and been done with it, but he didn't, and we became friends. I'm not saying all my problems were over, but I'm a better man for knowing David.