Roadtrip Z_Season 2_In The Ruins

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “What on earth are you doing?” She shouldn’t have shocked, really. After shooting one of those…things…in the sporting goods store, she was surprised at this?

  “Rather not let those critters know where we are, if we can help it.” He looked over his shoulder, his capable hands working away. It was mildly surprising how tall he was; at this angle, with the grey light falling through the dusty glass door, she could catch a glimpse of the angular, almost-gawky teenager he must have been. Had he been quiet then, too, or the class clown? Sometimes people changed. “Won’t take but a minute.”

  Well, since he’d already popped the door open with a crowbar, she supposed she couldn’t cavil. Was there anything he didn’t have in the back of his truck, anything he didn’t know how to do? The world had turned upside down, and all of a sudden people who were capable with things other than keyboards and screens were the ones who stood a better chance of surviving.

  Or had they always been? Being poor, or even just redneck, looked like good training for the end of the world.

  She tried to imagine being in New York while the sickness spread. It wasn’t pleasant. So many people jammed together, living on top, underneath, cheek-by-jowl…the illness must have raced through like a wildfire. Was this what the Native Americans felt when smallpox arrived, and the whites with their guns on its heels?

  What was that old line? We have seen the enemy, and he is us.

  God. The immensity of the disaster hovered just out of sight, waiting to pounce on you the instant you relaxed.

  “Miss Ginny?” Lee was right next to her.

  Ginny jumped, halting an undignified eek; it turned into a painful hiccup-bubble. “Jesus!”

  “Sorry.” Lee’s hand dropped back to his side. His hair, finger-combed and free of a hat, had loosened up considerably. The dark strands had chestnut highlights and the little bit of relaxation made him almost handsome. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s…” She swallowed the air bubble, or at least tried to, and coughed. Heaven help me, I’m going to choke on my own spit. Great. “No, it’s okay. I just…I’m…”

  “Tryin to catch up, right?” He nodded, spacing the words out. “Soldiers do that, too.”

  “Oh?” She waved her right hand slightly, like a fan. I’ve got the vapors. Vapor-locked. It struck her as funny, but if she started laughing now she’d look like an idiot. Or crazy.

  “Ayuh.” He didn’t move, probably thinking she’d jump again if he did. There was something almost comforting in feeling someone that close, if you knew them. If not for their coats, she’d catch the edge of his body heat. Maybe she already was, because her cheeks suddenly turned into stove burners. “When they come back from a hot patch.”

  Is that what you call it? “Oh.” There didn’t seem to be much else to say, and he just stood there. Patiently. Waiting.

  Well, it was her idea to come in here, so she set her shoulders and raised her flashlight. He and Juju both carried big black metal ones, heavy enough to club someone with; the hotel’s emergency flashlights were plastic and much less sturdy. The haul from the sporting goods store included a few more of the big heavy lights—MAGLITE, the outside of the packages screamed—and pretty much all the batteries you could ever want.

  The uncomfortable thought that maybe, just maybe, no more batteries would roll off the conveyor belts anytime soon stopped her in her tracks again. “God.”

  “Hm?” Lee made a mild inquiring noise, standing right where she’d left him.

  Ginny had never noticed the nylon carpeting in here, blue with tiny brown and orange flecks. Industrial. The machines to make it were no doubt dark and motionless now. “I keep thinking about all the things that won’t happen anymore. If this thing is worldwide, if it’s…”

  “Yeah, that’ll give you the shakes for sure.” Lee’s flashlight beam rose, played over the Books of the Month display. That made Ginny feel a little faint, too. The machines for printing and binding. The editors. And God knew how many writers, gone. So many stories lying stillborn, so many historians and essayists and memoirists with things to say, silent as Rachel Carson’s pesticide spring.

  The problem wasn’t that it was inconceivable, she decided. It was that she, trained by a lifetime of fiction, education, and imagination, could conceive all too goddamn vividly.

  Inconceivable. What a term. You keep using that word. A joke from an old movie ran through her head. I do not think it means, what you think it means.

  Ginny set her shoulders again, took a deep breath. Her braids were still damp from this morning's shower, and her head was cold. It looked like Paul had changed the display since she’d been in—had it really only been a few days ago? Now the books were about cold-frame gardening and weather disasters, and doorstopper classics—Moby Dick, collected Poe, a mound of Dickens—with a small handwritten label. Good for keeping warm on a winter night! Whether Paul Schaply had meant you could read them or light them was an open question.

  Get moving, Ginny. She took another look at the store layout. “Okay. First things first. Journal. Maybe even two or three, just to be sure.”

  “Journal?” Lee hooked his thumbs in his jacket pocket and studied the store interior as well.

  She headed for the spinner of blank Moleskines near the counter. Good enough for the Beats, good enough for the fall of human civilization. “Well, we’re living through something historical. People are going to want to know what happened. And…I want to make lists.”

  “What kinda lists?” He glanced back at the door, like he expected one of those things to come barreling through. Or maybe he wanted to get out of here. Did books make him uncomfortable? Funny, she couldn’t recall a week when he hadn’t been at the Cotton Crossing library, not since she’d started working at that branch. He was one of the regulars, she’d assumed he’d always been coming in.

  Would she have noticed otherwise? It was an uncomfortable thought. “Things I want to remember, or that I want other people to remember. Information plus culture is civilization. I mean, that’s an oversimplification, but…” Here she was, jabbering on. “Anyway. Journal. Then Foxfire books, and—”

  “The whatnow?” Half-turning, he peered out at the parking lot again. Slush darkened his boots and the frayed hems of his jeans.

  “They’re books about…well, country living. How to do things. Like how to butcher your own meat, how to build things, how to survive. We’ll need plant identification manuals too. First aid and survival stuff—”

  That brought his head back around. “You went to med school, right?”

  “Yeah, but what if I’m the one who needs help? Or something happens but I’m somewhere else? Or something happens I’m not familiar with?” She shook her head, much more comfortable now that she had the beginnings of a clear-cut list. “And you may know how to do all the outdoorsy things, but I don’t, and if something happens to you—”

  “Ain’t nothin gonna happen to me.”

  Typical male. He probably resisted going to the doctor, too, just like Dad. “But if something does. I can’t just depend on you.” The thought of Dad’s beak-nosed, serenely set face pinched under her left ribs.

  Hard.

  “Guess not.”

  Maybe Lee didn’t mean it sarcastically, but Ginny swung round and looked at him. His face was shadowed, turned away, but she could pick him out anywhere just by the way he stood. Deceptively easy, completely straight, shoulders a little back, not quite shouting military but saying it all the same. Quietly, as usual.

  Still, he looked unhappy, and Ginny’s conscience pinched a little. “If you don’t like it in here, you can wait in the truck.”

  That earned her a sideways glance, his dark eyes piercing. “Huh?” A faint line had begun between his eyebrows, his attention lighting on her like a hawk on a sunny perch.

  “You look uncomfortable.” At least she could be certain he wouldn't take offense.

  “Just watchin.”

  “For those…thi
ngs?” She stacked three lined notebooks on the counter, thought about it, added another. No new pens, just the check-signing ones in an oversized coffee mug, but she could find plenty of writing implements at the hotel, and there were two in her purse.

  “Or anything else,” Lee said. “Weather comin in, too.”

  “Yeah, it looks awful out there.” She could only hope they wouldn’t get stuck in Lewiston, of all places. If she had to spend the entire winter here, she would chew her own arms off.

  Now wasn’t that a cheerful thought.

  The problem with book-shopping after the Apocalypse was that she kept thinking of more she wanted to take, to preserve. Sure, there was Shakespeare, but should she even bother with a Bible? Great poetry in some bits, allusions to it throughout the Western canon, but did it really need to survive, with all the trouble it caused? That went for pretty much any holy book except for Buddhist sutras, maybe.

  God, she’d picked the wrong year to stop meditating.

  Should she maybe look for some Neruda or Toni Morrison instead? Not that Schaply’s would have Neruda. All the Seamus Heaney in the world, because he was a Dead White Man, but no Neruda. No Akhmatova either. There was one lone Sylvia Plath among the manly men of Paul-approved verse, and she decided that needed to be saved.

  Lee’s flashlight beam hit the sign overhead. “Poetry?”

  Ginny suppressed a sigh. “Just saying goodbye to old friends.” She took the slim copy of Ariel from its place. Let him think what he wanted. He was probably aching to get the fuck out of here and back to the hotel. Sometimes non-readers got nervous in bookstores. Ginny never understood that. Books didn't judge. They met you wherever you were, they deepened and changed as you did, but they didn’t suddenly turn on you.

  They were, in short, much better than people.

  She was in luck—there was a box set of the first three Foxfire books, used but in grand condition. A couple used Army manuals she decided might be useful, and among the slim pickings on the botany shelf she found a reasonably good, if decade-old, regional plant ID manual. “Sweet success,” she muttered, and went looking for anything medical. Paul organized according to a weird logic that only made sense if one squinted and guessed, and she felt only a slight twinge at going behind the counter to look for what she knew had to be there. Every bookstore owner had a stash of titles they wouldn’t put out on display, and Paul’s were interesting. Looked like he was into blacksmithing, and there was a How Things Work she nabbed as well as an almost-new Merck manual.

  Was Paul still alive? At home? Worried about his store? She felt bad for just coming in and taking. Sports equipment and ammunition was one thing, but these were books. She cast around, lighting on an ancient printer, and rescued a piece of blank paper. The check-writing pens rattled in a van Gogh coffee mug on the counter; she selected a green one and wondered what the proper salutation was. Dear Paul was too informal, Dear Sir a little cold. She pushed a fingertip under her left-hand braid, rubbing at a pinpoint ache she suspected would turn into a headache later.

  “What are you doin?” Lee, on the customer side of the counter, looked perplexed. He eyed her stack of picks like it was about to bite him, too.

  “Leaving a note.” Ginny decided she wouldn’t date it, because she’d have to dig her phone out to remember said date. “So he knows who took his books.”

  Lee’s expression hovered somewhere between mystified and amused. “I don’t think it matters, darlin.”

  “This is a bookstore.” I sound downright scandalized. She decided on Dear Sir, professional even if cold, and listed what she’d taken.

  Maybe she was being an idiot, because a smile pulled the corners of Lee’s mouth up. “All right, then. We about done?”

  “Almost.” I’m sorry to have taken them, but they’ll be put to good use, and when I come back I’ll pay you. She paused before signing her name, decided it was probably better not to. Sincerely, A Loyal Customer. “There. Let me just bag these.”

  “You do that.” Lee tensed, and when she looked up he was gazing out the windows at the parking lot. He had a nice profile, when his mouth relaxed. Unfortunately, his lips turned into a thin, worried line. “I’ll bring the truck up. You stay here, all right?”

  Please. Please is a good word to use. She swallowed a hot burst of irritation. “Fine.”

  “I mean it. Inside, Miss Ginny. Will you?”

  “Of course—oh.” Her skin shrank two sizes, goosebumps going down her back, and her throat constricted. “Is it—oh, God, are they out there?” She hurried to bag the books, grateful Paul was more of a paper than a plastic person, and Lee reached over the counter, catching her wrist. Warm fingers, he’d taken his green woolen Army gloves off.

  Ginny froze.

  “No ma’am.” He looked down at her, his eyebrows drawing together. “It’s all right. Nothin out there but bad weather. Just bein careful.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Her throat had closed up, her heart jolting up against the obstruction. And here she thought she was doing so well.

  He didn’t let go. “It’s all right,” he repeated, as if she’d disagreed.

  Nothing about this is even remotely all right. Still, it was kind of comforting. “Okay.” She tugged against his grip. “I’ll, um, just get these bagged.”

  “Ginny.” Why was he looking at her like that? “When it’s time to worry, I’ll tell you, aight?”

  “Sure.” How very patronizing of you. “Thanks. That’s very kind.”

  It was probably the wrong thing to say, because he dropped her wrist and did a smart about-face, heading for the door with long swinging strides, his shoulders set and broad under his shearling jacket.

  And Ginny wondered why on earth she was blushing.

  A Good Hypothesis

  They made it back to the hotel before an ugly sleet began to lash the roads, which was good news as far as Lee was concerned. Ginny huddled on her side of the bench seat, three paper bags of books arranged and rearranged around her with careful solicitude at least twice during the ride. He’d scared her, right before they left the cold dark cave of the bookstore. Course, he’d scared her with shooting the goddamn critter in the other store, too. There was just no way around that particular hill, it was a downright terror-making situation.

  Still, he’d thought she’d be…what, reassured? Especially when he told her to be. Nothin yet he couldn’t handle.

  Juju and the kids were back, but the black man had the set look of a disagreeable patrol stamped all over his sculpted face. He stood in the foyer amid a pile of grocery-store loot, all neatly arranged in paper instead of plastic. “Bagged a motha in the grocery store. Fucker was tryin to get into the meat cooler.”

  “I got one at the Bateley’s.” Lee set down a box of clothing. Traveller, yip-yodeling his happiness at the return of his pack, wove around his knees. “So, they’ll take dead meat if they can get it. Good to know.”

  “He sure wasn’t lookin to chew on some celery.” Juju rubbed at the back of his left hand and the old burn scar, straightening to stretch his legs. “Listen, Lee, next time don’t send me out with the kids. Not half a brain cell between ’em. Boy almost got his guts fulla nine-mil, comin up on me blindside.”

  “Shit.” Lee scratched at his neck. The hotel lobby was brightly lit; outside the canopy past the front door sleet came down in hissing curtains. “Aight, I’ll put him straight. Thinking maybe we shouldn’t none of us split up for a while.”

  “Well, you can send me out with Miss Ginny.” Juju’s grin was a shadow of its former self, but nice to see anyway. He scrubbed at his hair, a familiar motion, washing away worry and settling into being back from the zone. “She got brains, that girl.”

  Did she ever. “Plenty of ’em.”

  The rest of the grimness around Juju’s eyes and mouth fled. “She likes you.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t, he couldn’t really tell. Lee poked at the box of clothing, and decided the subject needed c
hanging. “I got baseball bats. Helmets, too.” If they had to tangle with the critters, probably best to cover up. Bulletproof vests were good, but they didn’t armor all the places someone could chew.

  “Baseball bats?” Juju sucked in his cheeks, squatting to look through the box. “Shit, put some lead in those motherfuckers and we can have ourselves a good time.”

  “Amen to that. Keep the dog in, willya?” Lee headed back outside to find Ginny up in the bed of the truck, handing down the bats to Steph. Mark Kasprak, who should have been scanning for trouble, was instead leaning on the tailgate, probably cracking jokes because Steph laughed, tossing her thin fluttering ponytail in its red scrunchie. Ginny straightened, glancing out into the parking lot as the sleet’s sibilant mouthing intensified. Some of her curls had come loose, and from this angle she was a nervous doe, head upflung in a wintry field.

  Anyone drawing a bead would find her an easy target.

  “Kasprak,” Lee barked. His chest hurt, a pinch high on the left side. “What in hell you doin, son?”

  The kid jumped like a jackrabbit, and Lee was hard put not to smile. “Nothin, Mr Quartine, sir, I just—”

  “Nothin ain’t what you out here for. Go on around the front of the truck and keep a lookout.”

  “There ain’t nothin out there, sir.” Kasprak set his chin and scowled. Apparently Juju’s run-in with the meat-locker critter hadn’t made much of a dent. For a second Lee wanted to run the kid ragged like he was in basic, but the fact that Ginny was watching took some of the savor out of the idea.

  “I’m keeping an eye.” Ginny, kind and soft. She glanced back at Lee, and her expression plainly said, they’re young, what are you going to do?

  Even a kid could get someone killed when there were hostiles roaming around. “Kasprak.” Lee fixed him with a steady look. “You want to get yourself bit? Or Steph? Or Miz Mills there?”