Atlanta Bound

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Ginny had it, too.

  The woman smiled, pearly teeth visible even at this distance. Red lipstick to match that coat, and her hood had fallen back, exposing a wealth of dark curly hair. She waved again, bouncing a little on her forefeet, and the man still kept his hands far away from the trigger.

  Lee’s mouth was dry. The woman called something excited, and the sound filtered in through Ginny’s window.

  “Hey! We’re friendly! We’re not sick! Hey!”

  She waved again, and the man’s stance remained easy. He knew how to handle that rifle, but that posture said he was hoping he wouldn’t have to.

  “Lee?” Ginny whispered.

  The calmer he was, the calmer she’d be. “When I get out, slide on over to the driver’s side.” He hit his seatbelt. “Just in case.”

  “Lee…” Damn it, now she sounded scared. But, like any good recruit, she exhaled shakily and braced herself. “All right.”

  The longer he waited, too, the more nervous everyone would get. Lee’s door opened, and snow kissed his hair as he headed along the side of the truck, peering around the windshield. At least it didn’t feel like a trap. The red-jacketed woman bounced out into the whirling flakes like she had a personal exception to gravity and was in a good mood as well.

  The weather was starting to thicken up, and though he hated to stop early it looked like they were going to have to halt in the next town.

  The stocky, olive-skinned man made a despairing sound. “Phil! Goddammit!”

  But Red Riding Hood kept right on going, curls bouncing, and Lee wondered if the other fellow was feeling the way Lee himself did when Ginny took off.

  Red Riding Hood skidded to a stop halfway between the primer-scarred Explorer and Lee’s own truck, eyeing him curiously. “We’re not sick!” she called, waving her red-gloved hands for emphasis. A color-coded miss, this was. “No bites, we’re not sick.”

  “Neither are we,” Lee called back. “Your buddy there, he friendly?”

  “Duncan? Friendly enough.” She waved her arms some more, an expansive, happy windmilling full of that graceful ballet-motion. “If you’re not into murder, rape, or arson, he’s a downright hoot. Are you guys?”

  Was she asking if they were all men? “Are we what?”

  “Into all that?” She bounced again. Looked like she went along at sixty while the rest of the world was doing thirty-five, and he almost pitied the fella with the rifle.

  Said fella stepped forward, said rifle well down and his hands still loose. “Phyllis, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s the end of the world, Duncan,” she called back. “We can’t be picky. Unless they’re murderers.” She sized Lee up again. “Are you?”

  Like she thought killers looked any different than regular folk. Lee felt the soft thudding under chained truck tires again, and his throat would not wet up. “No ma’am,” he called, hoarsely. “We’re headin north and east. Near New York.” Juju would be keeping an eye out for other movement in the falling snow, but the walkie-talkie stayed silent. “Got ourselves a mission.”

  “Well, we can come along,” she blurted, “because the damn car won’t start.”

  Dark-haired, stocky Duncan Harris was younger than he first looked, but his brawn and posture shouted tough. He reminded Lee of Rooster Cogburn, but without the unsteady explosiveness lurking in Rooster’s banty frame. “Just needs a jump, maybe,” he said, while Lee peered under the Explorer’s hood. “The cold does things to t’engine.”

  “We could have just stolen a working one,” Phyllis Lampke chimed in. She’d wrapped a large, pink, hand-knit scarf around her pretty throat, bits of snow caught in her curls like stage-dressing. “But no, Mr Law and Order there wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “That was before we knew how bad it was,” Duncan returned, imperturbable. “Been avoiding cities since. Glad you happened along. Hate to have to sleep here again or hike out.”

  “You headin to Atlanta?” Lee eyeballed the engine again. There wasn’t any good news in there. The Explorer was well-maintained, but a little problem in current conditions could turn into a huge fucking snarl given very little prompting.

  Still, this Harris fellow took care of his vehicle, which was a cautious mark in his favor.

  Juju was on watch, scanning the parking lot and the snowy slope behind the concrete restrooms; Mark Kasprak, somber with responsibility, was near the truck and four-by, keeping a sharp eye the other direction. Steph, right next to him, watched Traveller, who ran in merry barking circles, his excitement falling flat against deadening flake-curtains.

  “What’s in Atlanta?” Phyllis’s eyes were large and dark, and her high gloss was almost unreal. Perfect, poreless coppery skin, that dancer’s grace, and that cloud of shining, curly dark hair—even her unpolished nails gleamed a little, and her old boots and painted-on jeans partook of that smooth, shining surface.

  Some women were just blessed that way. Like Ginny, too—all the seams tucked away and the edges buffed, even when they were disheveled.

  “The Center for Disease Control was broadcasting near the end.” Ginny kept glancing nervously at Duncan and stayed on Lee’s other side. A vote of confidence, sure, but he didn’t like how tentative she sounded. “Everyone we’ve met has been going to Atlanta.”

  “We didn’t hear none of that.” Duncan didn’t seem to notice Ginny’s caution, but he didn’t make any sudden moves, either. And he carefully did not look at her or Steph, resting his gaze on the engine instead. “Phyl here was heading to New York.”

  Ginny perked up a little. “Really?”

  The pretty girl gave another megawatt smile, her eyes lighting up. “Was gonna break into modeling. Then the world ends, and I’m stranded in Ohio.” She jerked a thumb in Duncan’s general direction. “Then I ran across this guy fighting off a bunch of dead people. He thinks it’s religious. I’m pretty sure God is auditioning us all for a big role or two.”

  Duncan grunted. “Yeah, well, she crashed her car trying to outrun some of those mother—I mean, uh, some of those wild Army boys in Pittsburgh.”

  “What happened there?” Lee wanted to know.

  “Some of the checkpoint boys figured since it was the end of the world, they were gonna get what they could while they could.” Duncan shrugged, but his jawline hardened. “Figured they’d shoot me and have Phyl all to themselves.”

  Phyllis shuddered, only slightly theatrically. “Yeah, well.” She glanced away, and Lee got the idea there was more to that story.

  So, apparently, did Ginny. “Civilization breaking down,” she said, softly. “Hey, you want to get out of the cold?”

  “Not much of it to break down,” Duncan said, morosely, with the air of a much older man. “Phyl, go on and warm up. If this gentleman’ll give us a jump, we’ll be all right.”

  “I’m fine.” Phyllis hugged herself. “I just want to get out of this rest stop. I do not want to sleep in the car with you again, Duncan. No offense.”

  “None taken.” The man even looked like he meant it. “You snore anyway.”

  “So do you, you jerk.” But Phyllis’s laugher was just as bright and pretty as the rest of her, and maybe that was what decided the issue.

  “You got some leakin in there,” Lee said, almost unwillingly. “A jump’ll just put it off until it freezes. We can take you along, get you a better car up the road.”

  Duncan didn’t bite immediately at the offer, but gave Lee a long considering look. “Where are you headed?”

  So he was no fool. That was good to know. “New York. Ginny’s got kin there.” Lee dug for a pocket rag to wipe his hands with, even though he hadn’t touched anything greasy. You could never tell, with engines. Best to be safe.

  “New York after all.” Phyl brightened. “I mean, if you wouldn’t mind having us along. Duncan’s great with that gun, you know. And I can cook. That’s what I was doing, food service. Before I started out for the Big Apple and everything went to shit.”

  Lee glan
ced at Ginny. She met his gaze, pale and drawn, and something tugged at the inside of his chest. Still, he didn’t need her to say a word. “Be right happy to have more hands. Let’s get you loaded, I don’t think this beast is movin anytime soon. Y’all got luggage?”

  Home Forever

  Deep River RV & Motor hunched under curtains of snow, heavy mounds of damp white standing ghostly sentinel. Fortunately, the dealership had its own gas pumps, and a couple of the newer RV models even had solar panels—snowed under and no good in the failing light, but it was a wonderful idea, and it meant the bigger, more luxurious ones had some juice left. Their small windows glowed, they had cramped but actual bathrooms, and if the travelers could find a water source that wasn’t frozen, a tepid shower could even be arranged.

  Best of all? Everyone could have their own separate sleeping-RV for the night.

  Or not, as the mood took them.

  Steph shook her head, turning from the small stove. “Not like that,” she said, firmly. “Do it again.”

  “Aw, man.” But Mark, obediently, slammed the door on his way out, then carefully opened it again, stamped his feet to rid them of snow, and re-entered. “I’m home!” he yelled.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you don’t beller it!” Steph put her hands on her hips. She looked a little like her mama when she did that, and it was an uncomfortable echo.

  Especially when Mark had beaten off Mrs Meacham with a cast-iron skillet with the morning’s scrambled eggs still clinging to its insides. “I ain’t goin out there again.” He locked the door and swept his knit cap off, shaking melting snowflakes from his dark hair. A high blush stood out on his newly shaved cheeks, and he bent to work at his bootlaces. “You can’t make me.”

  “Well, fine.” Steph’s hands dropped, but she wore a small, cat-satisfied smile. “Just remember next time, don’t beller. Call it out. Just sing it out like you’re happy.”

  “I am happy.” Half upside down and scowling, he picked at the wet rawhide laces until they gave. “Why are we playin this game? It’s dumb.”

  “It’s not dumb. I want to see what it’s like and you said okay. If you don’t wanna, you can sleep in one of the others, there ain’t no shortage.” Steph folded her arms defensively. She’d let her hair down, full of soft waves from the braids, her cheeks were flushed, and Mark Kasprak about lost his breath for no good reason at all.

  So he dropped his head again, staring at his laces. “I told you, I ain’t goin out there again.” He finally got his boots undone and loosened. Stepping out of heavy leather and standing in sock feet was almost like heaven. Wool socks were good, even if they got a little damp. Still, he couldn’t wait to get dry ones on. “So what now?”

  Steph shook her head a little, as if she couldn’t believe he didn’t know. “Now I ask how your day went.”

  “You were right next to me the whole time!” And Lord, but he could have kicked himself, because her face fell.

  “Mark.” One soft little word. Maybe she was taking lessons from Miz Ginny, because she sounded just like her. High-class but not uppity, and disappointed as well.

  “Okay, fine.” If it made her happy, why not? And if they were playing this game, it maybe meant a kiss.

  Or something. Anything. Even

  “How was your day, honey?” Steph turned back to the tiny stovetop, where fancy tomato bisque from a carton warmed a small tin pot. Right next to it, a tiny frying pan was only big enough for one slice of frozen fancy bread, some cheese slices that hadn’t gone bad yet, and some margarine defrosted from brick-hardness were all in the process of becoming a tolerable grilled-cheese.

  She called me honey. A big, dopey grin spread across Mark’s face, and he didn’t have to hide it, neither. He’d watched families on TV, so this was no different. It wasn’t like his dad stamping in the front door and yelling you little shit or just grunting and heading for the fridge. This was kind of, well, normal. Despite the zombies.“It was all right. I’m glad to be home.”

  “I’m glad you’re home too.” She pushed her chin down a little and eyed him sidelong, with that shy kittenish smile of hers just the same as when he asked her if they were maybe, well, not dating, but maybe something like it, and she said why not dating?

  Mark lost all his air again. His heart blew up like one of those expensive foil balloons, the fancy ones at the Bargain Zone in Lewiston. Maybe she was just reciting the lines from the tee-vee shows, but still…it felt good.

  Real good.

  “Supper’s almost ready.” She sounded just like a movie star. The girl next door, the one the hero never thought he was good enough for until he did something great.

  So far, he hadn’t had much of a chance, but he was gonna grab it. In the zombie apocalypse, anyone could be a hero. “I can’t wait.”

  “I put your slippers right there.” She pointed with her chin, and Lord have mercy on his soul, but that lit up the balloons inside Mark’s chest something fierce.

  The tee-vee shows didn’t say how good it felt when someone had your slippers out, and maybe this wasn’t such a kid’s game after all. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get a real kiss. With tongue.

  Or even something better.

  Juju Thurgood leaned back, and back, and back with a long satisfied sigh. The chair—whoever heard of a recliner in an RV, but it was surely comfortable—cradled him just right, and he had a warm bowl of his favorite beans. There was even Wonder Bread for dipping, rescued from a convenience store’s deep freeze and carried in the four-by’s cab all day to defrost. Extra blankets waited on a brand-new bed, and this RV was too big to go under a bridge but still…there was somethin’ about havin’ wheels ready to go at any moment that appealed to him.

  Sometimes he’d thought of gettin one of them Airstream trailers and a truck to hitch it to, and just…drivin’. Billy Tipton would have laughed at the idea, being of the persuasion that you didn’t go camping if you had a perfectly good house unless you were lookin’ to bring home some meat. All during their tours that boy had wanted to go home, couldn’t shut up about it.

  Well, he was home forever, now, lying on his bed with a smashed-in skull. At least Juju didn’t have to dream about Billy shuffling through the snow makin’ that grindin’ noise. Instead, Juju wiggled his bare dry warm toes, luxuriously, and could remember good times with ol’ Tip. Or even middling ones.

  This RV had a CD player, and Leontyne Price was just warming up to Semper libere and that high ol’ E-flat. He could play it as loud as he wanted without Tip making a face. Still, he’d turn it down after a little bit, since the things hunted by sound.

  Maybe Verdi would draw a higher class of critter.

  Juju smiled ruefully, shaking his head, his hair scratching against the chair-back. It wasn’t as good as having Billy’s steady breathing presence in another room, but after the last few weeks, it was pretty damn all right.

  There was even some glass-bottle fancy beer, not too bad, to wash down the beans and bread with. Ginny was frettin’ about nutrition, and Juju figgered he needed some Vitamin C or somethin’ healthy in a little bit, but not tonight.

  No, tonight was for enjoyin’ some of the finer things in life. There was a whole Sara Lee cheesecake on the counter of Juju’s chosen RV, defrosting. While it certainly wasn’t his grandma’s chess pie, it didn’t have to be.

  Yes sir, Juju thought as he settled back in the recliner, he was going to have a fine old time all by himself. There was no better company, and even with the whole world gone to shit, he was content.

  Phyllis frowned at her nails. The past few weeks had been hell on her manicure schedule, and she was ready for a break. It was pure luxury not to have to listen to Duncan. He was all right, for a guy, but he was boring, and to top it all off, he snored. Sleeping in the back of a car might have been fine in high school, but it was not fine in subzero temperatures with the chewing, shuffling dead on the loose.

  Especially when he insisted on keeping the cooler between them. She’d thought it was
chivalry, but maybe he just wasn’t interested. Which would be a blessed first for Phyl, indeed, and while it was welcome, she didn’t know if she quite liked another change.

  The world had been full of them recently, and she’d about hit her capacity to adapt.

  There was a stack of silvery pie-shaped pans with handles on the fake-wood counter, the kitchenette barely stamp-sized but still quiet, trim, and blessedly empty except for her own sweet self. She was going to pop some popcorn, do her nails, and luxuriate in electric heat. It would be like a slumber party, except with no other girls to make envious remarks or babble on about boys. And if the salt would bloat her, well, she’d get enough exercise to work it off.

  A zombie apocalypse was good for something.

  There wasn’t any TV, but she had something even better—a big, thick, handsome hardcover of Ulysses, full of long, complex, deceptively roundabout sentences. There was nobody around to laugh at her for reading or sidle up and try to make small talk, interrupting her flow. Nobody to mock her, or tell her it was a big book for a little girl.

  A little girl who’d shot two men and saved Duncan Harris, thank you very much. Even if it had taken zombies to get her out of that one-horse town and there were probably no modeling agencies left in New York, Phyllis Anne Lampke was damnwell doing all right.

  She kept James Joyce in the very bottom of her luggage and Henry James in her purse, a pair of good-luck charms; tonight she was going to carefully lick her fingers before touching any pages. She was also going to read as late as she wanted, and nobody but nobody would stop her.

  Tomorrow was soon enough to worry.

  The end of the world had so far been kind to Duncan Harris.

  He stood in the middle of an RV he wouldn’t have been able to afford even if he hadn’t blown his inheritance in Miami, his eyes closed and electric light pressing against his lids. He was finally, completely, blessedly alone.