In The Ruins

by Lilith Saintcrow

  When Miz Mills came back, Steph was busy mashing the patties with the back of the spatula.

  “Maybe you can help me,” the librarian said again. Steph sneaked a glance at her, and Miz Mills was smiling, her perfect teeth peeping out. It was enough to make you swear to floss even if you hated to. “I’m hopeless at fried chicken, you know. I stole a bite or two of yours, and it’s really good. You think you could teach me your secrets?”

  “Yeah.” Steph wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. Miz Mills didn’t seem to notice she was leaking. “I can do that.” Her shoulders came down, all at once, and when the librarian put an arm around her, Steph leaned in.

  Miz Mills’s warmth, so different from the glare of heat off the wide metal bed of the grill, made the big, scary, topsy-turvy world shrink back to a manageable size.

  Ain't A Word That Applies

  Five AM rolled around, the hotel bed was warm enough and certainly comfortable, but nothing—not even counting back from five hundred and slowing her breathing down—worked. Even the subliminal hum of electricity throughout the hotel failed to soothe her. Ginny pushed the covers back and sat up, peering at the alarm clock. At least Lee had a sturdy wristwatch to set it by, and hadn’t told her it was useless when she asked him for the time. Nobody had said, we’re not even going to be here tomorrow, why bother?

  They just probably thought it.

  At least she’d been able to plug her phone in. It wasn’t quite a useless brick with a full charge. Now she was wishing she’d downloaded more useful apps instead of a a digital cat game and Scrabble.

  Steph, breathing deeply, lay on her side. Her eyelashes were dark fans, and with her sharp face relaxed she looked even younger. The girl had been close to tears a few times, but each time she squared her shoulders and soldiered on, almost pathetically grateful when Ginny distracted her or complimented her steadiness. Funny how comforting someone else pushed your own uncertainty and fear into the background.

  Ginny sighed, picked up her phone, and squinted at it. It had the right time.

  And, would you look at that, two bars for service. When she tilted the phone, though, they both vanished. Came back for a brief second, vanished again.

  “My God,” Ginny whispered, then clapped her hand over her mouth when Steph, wrapped in a burrito of covers, shifted and sighed. She scrambled for slippers, and shrugged into her coat over her pyjamas. A fancy word for a camisole and torn-up sweatpants, but it was what she had. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping in boxers here, God only knew what was on the sheets.

  She eased out into the hall, blinking against the light and freeing her sleeping-braid from the coat collar with an impatient yank. The whole hotel was glowing like a Christmas tree. Maybe other survivors would see, and their little group would wake up to other people in the foyer or the rooms? Ginny couldn’t figure out if that was a comforting idea, or a terrifying one.

  What about the shuffling things? Mark called them zombies. It wasn’t a bad name—it was, in fact, extremely apt—but using it gave her a weird upside-down feeling. Zombies belonged in movies, and yes, in books. Safe between hardback or mass-market covers, contained behind the glass of a glowing screen. Not out here, where people bled and sweated and…

  And died. Like her neighbors.

  What about her parents? And Flo? Hopefully they’d all retreated to the house and locked the doors. Were they worrying about her right now?

  Maybe not. After all, I’m not the favorite. She quashed that thought in a hurry. Of course her parents loved her. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that they loved Flo more. It was just the way the world ordered itself. Being an adult meant learning to live with those sorts of things, and not letting them turn you bitter.

  Still working on that one, I guess.

  Padding around a deserted hotel at night was spooky. She’d never noticed before how many blind spots there were, how quiet a building got when there weren’t people around. It wasn’t quite silence, but a haze full of stealthy sliding unsounds, and each time she approached a corner, a vivid vision of something shambling and rotting on the other side, jaws working and its chest vibrating right before making that deep grinding sound…well, it wasn’t pleasant.

  She almost jumped out of her skin when an icemaker behind her clattered, and had to lean against a wall of pink-striped paper, resting her hand on her chest and feeling her heart gallop inside its bone cathedral.

  When she made it to the foyer, it was a relief to see lean brown-skinned Juju in an uncomfortable-looking chair, his booted feet resting on another, a gun in his lap and a People magazine open in front of his nose. Traveller snored, stretched out beside him, his ears twitching and paws moving a little. Chasing smells even in his sleep.

  The idea that Juju was looking at the last edition of People, ever, was not even remotely amusing. They kept hitting her, those little things, and she was doubting she was having some trouble absorbing the punches, so to speak.

  “Well hello, Miss Ginny.” He peered over the top edge of the magazine, wrinkles fanning from the corners of his quiet, velvety eyes. Traveller’s dreaming-noises stopped, and the hound cocked an ear. “Good thing you made some noise, and I ain’t jumpy.”

  “Very good thing.” She hesitated in the arched hallway entrance, peered at her phone again. The service bars had vanished outright. Maybe she should just go back upstairs? But that was hardly polite. “And it’s just Ginny, Mr Thurgood. Care for some company?”

  “Well, I got me a hot read here.” He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling further. “But I s’pose I can make some time for a lady like yo’self.”

  “You’re a gentleman.” Her own smile felt a little creaky, but it cheered her up. She settled in another uncomfortable foyer chair, kitty-corner from his, hunching her shoulders and burrowing her hands into pockets, and realized he’d chosen his spot so he could keep the front door in sight. “You’re also on watch, huh.”

  “Ayuh.” He nodded, rubbing at his jawline with a fingertip. Traveller wagged his tail once, twice, thumping on the thin carpet, and went back to sleep. “Lee’s shift is in an hour or two. I could wake him up early.”

  She shook her head, her loose braid slithering across the back of her coat. “Why? Let him sleep.”

  “I’m sure he’d rather talk to you.” Juju settled himself in the chair like it was the most comfortable furniture in the world, his well-worn fatigue pants belted low. “Boy’s got himself a crush.”

  “Oh?” What was she supposed to say? Good Lord. A change of subject was probably safest. “Have you seen anything? Out the door?”

  “Not yet.” His good humor evaporated, and he dropped the magazine into his lap. There was a shiny burn scar on the back of his left hand; he rubbed at it with his right fingers, a quick habitual smoothing. “That what you worried over?”

  Ginny hunched inside her coat. Her camisole's stretchy lace scraped across her decollatage, but she couldn't very well go digging to scratch it right now. “I’m worried about everything.” That’s just high on the list.

  “Shouldn’t do that. Give ya wrinkles.”

  Did he not notice she was, in her mother’s deadly polite parlance, already on the shelf? “Yeah, well, I’m already there.”

  That seemed to finish up all the conversation either of them had the stamina for. Juju watched the glass doors, electric light playing over their vehicles, parked close. Two ribbons—one orange, one yellow—snaked across the floor and under the doors, attaching to the engine warmers on both the truck and the 4x4. They thought of everything, and she was just along for the ride.

  “I feel useless,” Ginny said, finally, staring at the 4x4’s gleaming black hood. It felt like a secret, whispered when you didn’t have to look at your conversational partner. Road trips and tourist attractions were where those sorts of things got told, where you didn’t have to see someone else’s expressions as they absorbed, judged, reacted.

  Juju nodded, setting his jaw either stubbornly or t
houghtfully. It was hard to tell. He’d taken his hat off, and his short, crinkled hair was luxuriating in the freedom. “Me too.”

  “At least you can shoot.” And fix things.

  “That didn’t do Tip any good.”

  Ah. Ginny’s heart hurt, a swift hot pinch. She remembered Mr Tipton—short and broad, with ferocious black muttonchops and an easy smile. He’d seemed a nice enough guy, in all of the five minutes she'd interacted with him. “You did what you had to, Mr Thurgood.”

  “Lee keeps sayin that.” He shook his head, glaring at the front door as if he expected one of the infected to shamble past. “Don’t make a damn bit of difference.”

  “It does. You just can’t see it right now.” God, what a lame thing to say. The psych classes she’d taken in premed didn’t cover this at all. “It’s a normal feeling.”

  “Normal.” He tossed the magazine, glossy pages fluttering, onto a tiny round table bolted to the floor. “Yeah. This the Pocalypse, ma’am, and normal ain’t a word that applies.”

  “You might be right.” She shivered. “I mean, I’m not religious, but you just might be right about it being…that. Even if it is, there’s no shame in defending yourself.”

  He gazed at his boot-toes now, staring like he had X-ray vision to count his toenails with. “You ain’t religious?”

  “No. I mean, we did bat mitzvahs for me and my sister, but we weren’t, you know, observant or anything.”

  A brief, puzzled glance swiveled his chin in her direction. There was a small divot in the bridge of his nose, broken once a long time ago. “Meatzvah?”

  “Bat mitzvah." Her smile no longer felt foreign. "Jewish.”

  Juju shifted a little. Those fatigue pants looked very comfortable. Pockets galore, and camouflage. Just the thing for the end of the world. “You’re Jewish?”

  “My mom is. So I am by default, I guess. But it was never a big thing.” She watched the glass doors, the side of Lee’s battered truck. He had everything in the back, for God’s sake. And if she focused on that, she wouldn’t have to look at Juju and see if he was going to say…anything.

  You never could tell how people would react.

  When he did speak, though, it was just soft and thoughtful. “Well, y’all got anything in your book that explains this?”

  “Not really.” She relaxed a little, then a little more. “Most of it is well, they tried to kill us, some of us survived, let’s eat! Pretty much every one of our holidays boils down to that.”

  “Huh.” He shifted, propping his Army boots more securely. Steel-toed, and dry now, their caps rubbed with polish. “Sounds like somethin my grandmammy would say.”

  “Are you religious?” It felt funny to ask. The only thing less polite would be mentioning someone’s income, or taking notice of an embarrassing bodily noise.

  “Mammy Liz dragged me to church every blessed Sunday until I went into the Army. After that, only time I ever prayed was when they was shootin at us.” He sighed, and some of the tense hurtful alertness in him drained away. “Sort of concentrates a man’s mind.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  This time, the quiet holding them both was almost companionable. Ginny’s eyelids grew heavy. She pulled her legs up, bracing her heels on the seat, hugging her knees. It was warmer that way. “Do you think anyone will see the lights?” she finally asked, softly. Almost whispering, a little girl up past her bedtime.

  “Maybe. But not them things.” Sounded like Juju didn’t like calling them zombies either.

  That was just fine by her. Her heels slipped on the edge of the seat, and she hugged her legs harder. Maybe the shivers would stop if she curled up tighter. “No?”

  “They got bad eyes.” He rubbed at the burn scar again. “But they hear just fine.”

  “Oh. Yes.” It made sense. “That’s right. The one in the driveway, it…yeah.” It hadn’t looked at her, its eyes grey-filmed and caving in. There was definitely nothing wrong with its ears, though. She’d yelled to get it away from Traveller.

  She glanced down at the dog. Sprawled on his side, his speckled coat gleaming and his eyes blissfully sealed, the very picture of relaxation.

  “Lee was about beside himself when we got there.” Juju sighed, and now rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Did talking help him stay awake? “He’s good folk, Miz Ginny.”

  “So are you,” she murmured. “I’m really glad you’re here, Mr Thurgood.”

  “Aw, well. It’s Juju, ma’am, and thank you.”

  She suspected he wasn’t quite glad to be here, but was too polite to say so. “You’re very welcome. Should I make you some coffee?” Ginny also had a hazy idea Juju's feelings for Tip might have been…well, not exactly brotherly, but that wasn’t something you could ask in this part of the US. Not like New York.

  God, how she wanted to be home. Even Mom’s vapors and Flo’s hormone-fueled passive-aggressiveness paled in the face of all this.

  “Nah,” Juju said. “Ain’t got but an hour or two left.”

  Go figure, she couldn’t sleep up in a nice comfortable bed, but she dozed there, in the foyer of an almost-dead hotel, while a man with a gun eventually picked up maybe the last People Magazine ever and continued reading. When she woke up, he was still in the same position, feet propped and ankles crossed, apparently absorbed. He said nothing as she shuffled away towards her room, Traveller padding behind her and lobbying hard to jump up on the bed. When she let him, he snuggled up close and began to snore.

  Maybe that was why she was gone as soon as her head hit the pillow, too.

  I Like My Cocktails

  The Eastside Avenue Lewiston Best Western was empty because the head manager Kenny Schmitt—despite what any of his employees would tell you just for the asking—was, at heart, not an asshole. Sure, he looked like one, from the smooth brown skull under his fuzz-curly combover to his brown polyester suit jackets and too-long maroon ties. He even acted like one, from his pissy three-strikes-you’re-out policy to his habit of cutting hours if someone “got fresh” with him. His visible disdain for smokers sealed the deal, according to the housekeeping staff, who, like soldiers, might not suck on chimney stacks but would raise hell if their “cigarette” breaks weren't scheduled in.

  But no, way down deep the Schmitt-Stirrer—so they called him—was in fact not an asshole. Just a man committed to a goddamn franchise hotel since it was the one thing he had left after alcoholism and old age stole the only person he’d ever loved. With three-quarters of the staff out sick, the news getting worse hourly, and the military roaming the streets shooting at people they didn’t like the look of, he spent hours on the static-filled, barely working phone telling everyone scheduled and not sick to stay home, that it wasn’t worth risking their lives to get here, that he would take care of it, that they would still get paid at least half-time because this, in his humble opinion, fell under “natural disaster.”

  It wasn’t quite “Act of God,” he joked, over and over again, but it was close.

  Kenny personally turned away travelers stupid enough to still be out roaming even with the weather and the checkpoints. Once everyone who had talked themselves into a room the previous night was also turned out, with much regret and protestations of concern for safety, Schmitt locked the door and shut even the emergency power off. Just like he would for a flood, or even a major tornado freakout like the big storms of ’78.

  He was a firm believer that if the buck stopped with him, why, he’d better be ready to make a decision and carry it out himself. You could even call Kenny Schmitt, when it got down to it, right decent.

  At the moment, though, he was wishing he’d stayed at the Best Western. Because his quiet neighborhood full of small tract homes—all built on the same five floorplans—was full of crapheaded sniffers with half-eaten faces hanging flop-open, and he was running out of ammunition.

  In retrospect, shooting from the master bedroom window was perhaps not his smartest decision. With several belts of Gordon’s Gin—his
late mother’s favorite—tightening around his judgment and his hotel lying dark and shuttered halfway across town, though, he was, as his dear old Mama would say, at loose ends.

  He’d bought the Smith & Wesson .38 after the cirrhosis took Mama Schmitt. It sat in its locked box in his closet through the long bleak winter the estate dragged through probate, a secret blued-iron friend he would turn to when everything was all said and done. The shock had been just how much she’d saved, scrimping and scrabbling for years. For my boy, her will read, and the only reason it dragged was because the government wanted its share. As if her taxes weren’t enough, she hadn’t even gotten old enough for Social Security. Then there was the insurance company, scenting cash like blood in the water. He would have gladly given the lawyers the entire estate just to make sure the insurance didn’t get a got-damn penny.

  In the end, it had only taken about half. What was left was still a good chunk. His employees would have been surprised that Ol’ Schmittster, with his busted-springs Chevy and his polyester off-the-rack, didn’t need to work, he just understood the value of a dollar too much to spend what his mama had so slowly, painfully accumulated. When the estate was all settled, he sometimes went to his closet and stood looking at the gunbox for as much as a half-hour at a time. Standing there, swaying slightly, usually in his yellowing undershirt with a hard little potbelly pooched out and his lower lip protruding, his mother would have recognized the pudgy, wistful child he’d been in a man’s face.

  Each time, though, he shut the door and shuffled away in his threadbare slippers. Until today.

  The gin went down smoothly. He didn’t really like the bite of tonic water as his mother had. That quinine keeps me young, she would joke, even while she turned yellow when her liver shut down and begged him to bring her just a sip, just a taste. You know I like my cocktails, Ken.

  He drew a bead on one of the shufflers. Looked like Patsy Beaucannon from down the street, the hag who ran the Neighborhood Association and was always on people about dragging their trashcans in toot-sweet. Sometimes she tried to waylay neighbors by the mailboxes, but most put their heads down and hurried away when they saw her pink curlers on the horizon.