by Tim Meyer
“Watch your mouth, Mouth,” Dana snapped.
“Dana,” Becky grunted.
Mouth put his hand on her shoulder. “No... she's right.”
Dana jerked her head and wrinkled her nose at Becky.
Something was off about Mouth, Soren thought. He couldn't place his finger on it. Had he been crying? Soren saw the moonlight twinkle in Mouth's glossy eyes. Yes. The man had recently shed tears.
“We need an alternate route,” Soren announced. “Little miss,” he said to Dana. “Would you do us the honor?”
She smiled. Unfolding the map, she took one last glance at her sister before returning to her duties. Becky wasn't happy, but Dana didn't seem to care much. She looked pleased with the ugly look on her sister's face.
“We'll have to head back over the bridge,” she said, “and head... south.”
“South?” Soren asked. “You sure?”
“Yes. We'll head south for a little before making our way west again.” She showed the map to Soren. “See. We'll take this road. It might not be as crowded as the highway.”
Impressed, Soren's mouth fell into a unique, pleased smile. “South it is,” he agreed, patting the girl on the back.
-5-
“Great!” Mouth yelled, slamming the car door shut. His sadness had melted away and anger settled in its place. Becky had watched his face grow rosy on the walk back to the car. “Now we're being led by the psychopath's twelve-year old protegé!”
With her attention adrift, Becky faced the window. The brake lights on the SUV painted her face in a faint red glow. She watched the vehicle head in reverse, back over the bridge. Mouth sighed and pushed the car in first gear. They sped after them.
“Sorry, honey,” Mouth said. “Didn't mean any offense toward your sister.”
“Yeah, I get it,” she replied, continuing to stare outside. The ocean of dead cars and trucks zipped past her and nausea set in. Her brain ached, as if melting into a gelatinous ooze inside her skull. Her stomach somersaulted. Bile crept up the back of her throat. She closed her eyes, hoping the feeling would soon subside.
She thought malnutrition was the culprit of her motion sickness. She longed for a Caesar salad with tender, juicy grilled chicken strips sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. Or a turkey club sub sandwich topped with extra pickles. Her mouth watered as she thought of food she'd never eat again. She needed something, anything, and soon. She was sick of eating canned beans (or canned anything for that matter) and stale potato chips. She wanted shrimp and scallops. Filet mignon. Tuna steaks. Something tasty and savory. Something filling.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Mouth guided the car to avoid a collision with a truck and a minivan. Glass littered the road and Becky thought it was pure dumb luck the Hyundai's tires survived; loud popping noises interrupted the silence as they rolled over the sparkling lake of glass. Mouth winced, waiting for the inevitable hiss of escaping air, but it never happened and the car rolled on untouched. He turned back to Becky, her eyelids clenched together like angry fists. She gripped the armrest as if she were falling. “You okay?”
“Don't feel well.” Her stomach crawled up her throat. She opened the door without giving much thought. Luckily there was enough room between their car and the closest disabled vehicle. She stuck her head out and vomited. Mouth slowed the car down and eventually stopped. The two cars behind them followed their lead. Soren noticed they weren't being followed and parked in the middle of the bridge. Becky continued her sickly assault on the pavement, tossing her stomach's contents until there was nothing left but acidic bile. Although it burned coming up, she already felt better.
Mouth turned away. He hated puke. The sight of it made him want to join. The sound of the slop smacking the pavement didn't help matters. His stomach rotated and he thought about anything and everything to take his mind off it. He thought about Sundays in September in the old world; football, Sam Adams, chicken wings, and pumpkin pie. To block out the sour stench of vomit, he imagined the wood-smoke scented nights in chilly October. He breathed it deep into his lungs like the cigarettes he used to smoke back in his Navy days.
Becky closed the door while wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She faced the windshield, her skin as pale as moonlight.
“You gonna be okay there?” he asked, the smell of autumn fading away.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I think it was the way I was looking at the cars when you were driving.”
“Uh-huh.”
A tear rolled down the side of her face. She tried to stifle the whimper, but failed.
“There, there,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Getting sick happens. I used to get motion sickness all the time when I was a kid. My mother—”
“It's not that. I can't do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Live like this,” she said, wiping her nose. She sniveled and her lips trembled softly. A tear leaked from her eye, ran down the side of her face, and dribbled off her chin, disappearing in the darkness below.
“Don't say that.”
“I miss my family. I miss...” she breathed deeply and exhaled slowly. “The way things used to be.”
“We all do, honey. But we gotta deal. Things'll get better. They always do.”
“When?”
Mouth didn't know exactly. He nodded as if to say well, you got me.
“When we reach Alaska?”
“I guess so. Won't really know until we get there.”
“I can't do this.” She slammed her head back against the headrest. “And I feel horrible for having those thoughts when...” She paused and grabbed her mouth as if she might puke again.
“When what?”
She blocked an outburst with the back of her hand. “When so many have died trying to survive.”
“You're not a bad person for having those thoughts,” he said.
“I feel guilty. But I don't want to live like this anymore. I feel like... like ending it.” Her body shuddered as she cried harder.
“It's natural to feel this way.”
“No it isn't,” she argued. “I should want to live.”
“I can think of at least twenty people who disagree with you.” He threw his arm around her shoulder. One of the cars behind him beeped the horn, but Mouth ignored it. “Remember Sherry? The gal who fixed your father up when he got that arrow stuck in his leg.”
Of course she remembered.
“Soren promised he'd bring her husband back, but that never happened. The cannibals, they killed him. Maurice, I think his name was.”
“I remember.”
“Sherry killed herself on the first night. Never told no one except for Brian and Shondra, mostly because I don't think anyone else gave much a shit. I found her hanging from an oak tree about fifty feet from camp. She was as blue as the sky. She was still swaying back and forth, so I couldn't have missed her by more than a few minutes. Even if I had found her in time, what would I have done? She wanted to die, and who the fuck was I to deny her?”
“You're not making me feel any better, Mouth.”
“Shit, I was never one for motivational speeches.” He sighed deeply, slowly resting his back against the soft leather. Another horn sounded, followed quickly by two more. The convoy was growing impatient. “The point I'm trying to make here is your feelings are natural. The world is in the fuckin' shitter and the future is fuckin' bleak. But I'm not checkin' out yet and neither are you. I promised your father I'd look after your sister and you and that's exactly what I'm-a-fuckin' do. And if you...” He stopped himself. He had her attention now, her glossy eyes fixed on his. “If you kill yourself, Missy, I'll be a fuckin' wreck. You got your father out there somewhere looking for you, and when he catches up I don't want to be the one to tell him I found you with your wrists slashed open or hanging like Sherry.” He shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way. So listen to my idea. We stick together. We survive. We look after your sister, and keep an eye on this Soren character and his
mindless robots and we beat this game together. As a team. You and me. Whaddya say?”
She looked at him, the beginnings of a smirk finding her face.
“When you put it like that, it doesn't seem so bad.”
“Guess I'm better at speeches than I fuckin' thought.”
The tears evaporated and her lips stretched, curling at the corners. She even chuckled. Mouth rubbed her shoulder again, reassuring her even though the world was a complete clusterfuck and the chances of surviving dwindled each day.
“Just gotta stay fuckin' positive,” he said.
With her mind stuck in negative muck, she couldn't promise anything. Every time she thought about how lucky she was to be alive, she thought of Chris Atkins and his dead, bleeding corpse. Sometimes he came to her when she closed her eyes, his dead eyes staring at her, his mouth twitching to life. She told herself the nightmares would die with time, and she believed herself too, but she didn't know how long it would take, and how much she could take of them.
“Positive,” she said, nodding again.
A horn blared behind them. Mouth rolled down the window and shouted, “All right you fuckwads! I'm fuckin' going! Jesus's Balls!”
Mouth put the car in gear and trundled forward.
-6-
Two hours later, the convoy passed a sign welcoming them to Arthur, Maryland. After the detour, Soren urged the group to push themselves as far as they could before dawn hit. He told them via walkie-talkie they wouldn't stop and when they did, he'd find them shelter from the dangerous daylight.
They took the back routes like Dana had suggested, and as predicted, the two-lane roads were clean and free from abandoned vehicles, homeless drifters, and desperate, animals willing to give human flesh a try in order to prevent starvation. He told the group above everything, packs of wild dogs scared him most. They were no longer man's best friend and he urged his following to steer clear of all animals, but especially dogs. Dana thought it was silly, but promised Soren she'd listen to his orders. She had always loved dogs, puppies specifically, but never had one growing up. She always asked for a puppy for Christmas, but her father always said they were too much work and her mother never cared much for pets. When her mother remarried, she tried to get Bob to take on the added responsibility, but he seemed to share her father's opinion on the matter. They compromised and told her she could have a cat, but cats were “stupid” and not as fun as puppies.
As the group passed another ransacked shopping plaza, Susan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She knew Soren was leading the charge and wouldn't dare speak against his decisions—not in front of the others—but the decision to press on with dawn quickly approaching had her in jitters. Sweat dribbled down her forehead; she thought if she were to die, it wouldn't be on someone else's folly. She leaned forward, sticking her head between the front seats.
“Um, Soren,” she said timidly. “We passed another strip mall. Seemed empty. Safe. You think we should double back before the sun comes up? It's been getting light awful quick these last few days.”
For a second, Soren didn't acknowledge her. He looked in the rearview and stared directly at her. Then to Shondra, who sat next to an awake, yet relaxed Brian. The man had awoken about an hour ago, and the group had to explain to him what had happened. He laughed it off, admitted he got occasional seizures, and promised it was no big deal. He didn't elaborate any further, and Soren sensed the man was hiding something, and with good reason. When it came to the words he muttered unconsciously, Brian said he didn't know, told him it was only a dream. Soren didn't believe him, not for a single second.
“Sit back,” he commanded. “Your face is hogging up the mirror.”
She dropped the act and her smile ran like wet paint. Susan leaned back slowly, her eyes never drifting from Soren's. He ignored her, and stepped on the gas, propelling the SUV toward wherever he had mapped in his mind.
Dana grinned. She didn't like Susan, finding the way Soren spoke to her enjoyable. She giggled beneath her hand as her eyes fell back on the map.
Brian sat up. Shondra pushed on his shoulder, trying to ease him back down, but he waved her off, and mouthed the words, “I'm fine.”
His movement caught Soren's eyes. “Are you all right, Mr. Waters?” Soren asked.
Brian rubbed his right eye with the heel of his palm. “I feel great,” he said. “But I have to ask; where exactly are we headed?” When Soren didn't respond, Brian asked, “What was wrong with that strip mall back there? Isn't the sun coming up?”
“Why don't you lie down and take another nap. You seem to be good at that.”
“Yeah,” Dana said, “and talking in your sleep like a weirdo.”
Susan made a clicking noise with her mouth and tongue. “Now, Dana, it's not nice to call people names.”
“Indeed, young lady.” Soren's words came attached with a grin, telling Dana not to take them seriously.
Brian pushed his shaggy hair aside. His head felt empty, the world around him foggy, like a piece of his mind remained inside a dream; he usually knew the difference between the waking world and the one his mind sometimes visited, but today was different. Today the visions clung to him like dogshit to a shoe.
Why can't I have good ones, he thought. Like hitting the lottery or sleeping with that hot cashier, he used to think. But no, they were never good. It was always something terrible. A fatal accident. A robbery. A house fire. In the past, when he was a kid, the nightmares were vague, resembling nothing of reality, and he never thought about them much. It wasn't until his teen years he made sense of them. They never happened frequently. Once a year. Seldom twice. He remembered the first time he knew they were more than dreams. He had envisioned a priest inviting an alter boy to the back room for snacks and juice. The rest of the nightmare made him sick to his stomach, but the images burned themselves into his mind for eternity. A week after the dream he opened the newspaper and found a story on the altar boy from his dream. He didn't know it was the same boy for sure because his picture and name had been withheld, but he knew. He knew and there was no denying it. The boy had made the press, not for what happened to him in the backroom, but for what had happened to the priest years after the abuse. One lazy afternoon, the boy stumbled upon the priest taking a nap in the confessional and decided to take a kitchen knife to the holy man's throat. Another priest found him later that night, his throat slashed wide open, puddles of red covering the seat and floor.
After that night, Brian hated the dark.
He looked out the window. A tall green sign stated “Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel/1 Mile” and an eerie chill cut through him. Shondra must have caught his reaction because she placed her hand on his shoulder and asked if he was okay.
“Fine,” he said. “Just a little chilly.”
The rats are coming...
He looked at Soren's seedy eyes in the rearview mirror and realized they were already here.
-7-
The first of two tunnels loomed before them. Soren rolled the SUV to a stop. The sun threatened the horizon behind them, but the sky above was dark, full of stars refusing to scatter. Soren glanced at his passenger, his little navigator. She smiled back at him, approving their direction.
“What are we waiting for?” Brian asked.
Soren didn't answer. Instead, he took his foot off the brakes and stepped on the gas. The SUV zoomed forward. He clicked on the brights and the tunnel walls illuminated. The road looked clear and free of debris, which immediately threw Soren into a state of suspicion. Sure, the back and side roads had been relatively clean, but the major highways and interstates had been like a parking lot. The Chesapeake Tunnel and Bridge was a major road, and its unblocked entry seemed too good to be true. With the orange beast rising behind them, there was no time to double back.
The SUV led the way, and the other three vehicles followed closely behind. The first quarter of the tunnel was dark, the power around these parts no longer operable. There was no one left to man the po
wer grids. The fact that the power was still on in some areas surprised him. It was only a matter of time before all the lights went off, and stayed off.
The second half of the tunnel split three lanes wide. Mouth pulled up next to the SUV, the other two vehicles hanging back. Soren glanced over, saw him motioning to roll down the window. Soren obliged.
“A little fucking creepy, ain't it?” Mouth yelled. They had slowed to about five miles per hour. “I mean, not a single fucking car?”
“Maybe God has graced us with safe passage after all.”
“Ah, boo-fuck!” Mouth said. “I don't like a single thing about this. The others are having second thoughts.” He jerked his thumb at the vehicles behind him.
“And how would you know that?” Soren asked.
Becky held up the walkie-talkie.
“Maybe you should try channel two once in a while,” Mouth said, slowing to fall back in line.
Soren maintained his speed. Channel two? He glanced at the walkie-talkie Dana had stuffed between the seats. He snatched it from its resting place and did as Mouth suggested.
“(crackle crackle) fucking scared, man (crackle crackle) crazy. It's so dark in here (crackle crackle) deathtrap.”
“Calm down, dude. I can barely he—(crackle crackle) tunnel sucks for (crackle)—municating. Just calm—”
“—urning around.”
“No, don't—”
(crackle crackle)
“Bad feeling—”
“Dude, don't—”
“Fuck this—”
(crackle crackle)
“Come on, goddammit—”
“Sorry, bro—”
(crackle crackle)
The rest of the conversation was a steady mixture of static and lost syllables. Soren looked into the rearview in time to see one of the cars slam on the brakes. The tires squealed as the driver cut the wheel. The other car slowed to a stop and the driver scrambled out. He waved his hands at the other car, trying to talk sense into the driver, but he had already made up his mind. The passengers seemed to agree because no one hopped out when they had the chance. The car zoomed toward the exit, toward the approaching dawn.
