by Tim Meyer
Chuck cleared his throat. “What can I do to get out of here?” Chuck asked. “I don't wanna die. I want to get out of here. I'll do anything, I just don't wanna die.”
His words brought a smile to Sargent Mickey's face.
“Son, you should have thought about that before you broke the law,” Mickey said with the voice of a pastor giving a light sermon. “Should have thought about that good and hard. Hopefully good ol' Judge Murphy Fayden will have mercy on your soul. Whether you believe in the Good Lord or not, I'd start prayin' if I was you.” With a few steps to his left, Mickey disappeared out of sight, although no one in the holding cell truly believed he was gone.
“What do we do?” Chuck asked. Sweat poured down his forehead in several rivulets. His lips were shaking as if he were cold, but the temperature in the cell was far from frigid. He tapped the sides of his head with his fists as if trying to shake loose an idea. “What the fuck do we do?”
“I don't know—” Sam said, but Chuck screamed, “You don't know? How could you not know!”
Sam turned and faced him, kneeling down to his level. “Look, you can't freak out—”
“I can't freak out! I can't freak out! What the fuck are you talking about, man! That crazy bastard is going to kill us! Why would I not freak out!”
Sam glanced over at Jarvis with pleading eyes. He put his hands up as if to tell him, “You're all on your own with this one.” As Sam turned back, Chuck smashed his fists against his head, breaking away from the harmless gentle taps. Sam grabbed his wrists, trying prevent the man from hurting himself. Chuck screamed, “Get the fuck away from me!” and wrestled for control of himself. A second later, they heard the loud clang of metal swinging against metal behind them. They stopped and faced the hallway.
Sargent Mickey had his baton out, an exasperated mug on his face. He sucked in deep breaths, glaring at the three prisoners as if they had called his mother a fat pig. “That's enough, you motherfuckers!” With his free hand he reached over and grabbed three pairs of manacles off the wall next to their cell. He smiled when he read their expression. “That's right. Stand up, put your hands against the wall. No funny business. You know I don't tolerate no funny business.”
Chuck cried as Sam helped him to his feet.
“Where should we start?” Tina asked Matty once they were inside the sporting goods store. She had gone in alone and made sure there weren't any squatters waiting to attack them once their guard was down. She did this aisle by aisle, checking the back stockroom and employee lounge. She was quick about it, not wanting to leave Matty out of her sight for more than a few minutes. “I noticed they have a lot high quality rifles behind the counter over there.”
“Mmm,” Matty said, his eyes darting away from the weapons counter. “How about camping supplies?”
In the same moment, Tina winced and smirked. “Thought a young boy like you would love to hold a gun. You know, because of all the Call of Duty you play.”
“Yeah,” Matty said, not sounding the least bit interested. “Guess I'm weird like that.” Shuffling toward the camping section, he grabbed the backpack closest to him. He opened it and glanced inside, determining how much stuff he could cram in there.
“It's not weird,” Tina said. “Different. But not weird.”
“Most kids my age would love to hold a gun. Fire one, too.”
“Yeah, I bet. Look, I know it's dangerous and all, but you don't have to be afraid of guns. If you use them right, respect them, know what they're capable of, there's nothing to fear. If used properly, guns could be a good thing. Especially...”
He glanced over at her. “Especially since what?”
“You know. Now that you have someone you want to protect. Someone you care about.”
“I care about lots of people,” he told her, setting the backpack down and reaching for the sky blue 32.5L Marmont Daypack. It was the most expensive pack on the shelf and he could see why; it had plenty of compartments for water, zippered pockets for fitting phones and other hand-held devices, not to mention the cushioned laptop sleeve. It was everything Matty could have wanted in a companion pack. He slipped it over his shoulders. It was a little loose so he tightened the straps until it fit snug.
“You know what I'm talking about.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I can teach you.”
His head snapped toward her. “Teach me what?”
“How to shoot?” She narrowed her eyes. “What did you think I was talking about?”
“Nothing.” He returned his attention back to the shelf and sorted through the hip holsters. “I don't think I need to shoot a gun to protect Lilah.”
Tina placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot on the linoleum-tiled floor. “Oh yeah? What if we run into a gang like the cannibals again? What if instead of baseball bats and spiked clubs, they have shotguns. How will you protect her from that?”
Matty stood in awkward silence, wishing the uncomfortable moment away.
“Matty?”
“What?”
“Do you have an answer?”
“Not really.”
“Why?”
He turned to her. “I guess, because, I don't think we'll run into anyone like that again.”
Tina wrinkled her forehead. “Matty, I hate to break it to you, but the world has changed. You know that. Better than anyone.” He knew she was talking about the scar on the side of his face. He touched it gently as she asked, “Why are you playing dumb with me?”
He dropped the hip bag at his side. “I don't know...”
“I remember what it was like to hold my first gun,” she said with a childish smirk. “I was eight. My father taught me. I remember he told me to never aim it at somebody or something unless I was going to pull the trigger and wanted them to go away and never come back. I know you're scared, but I promise you, it will be a good thing.”
He wasn't so sure.
Turning to the gun counter, she said, “Come. It won't take long.”
-3-
Sargent Mickey pushed the three men along with the barrel of his .38 Special. They headed down a long corridor, an elevator waiting for them at the finish. The fluorescent lights in the hallway flickered, buzzing like busy bees.
“Power sucks,” Mickey said, glancing at the long bulbs above. “Got enough gas to keep the generator running for years. Problem is, the generator ain't big enough to keep the entire station running at once.” They were five feet from the elevator when Mickey said, “I sure hope the elevator don't get stuck.”
The way the cop laughed at this unsettled them.
The elevator opened with a ding. Sam stepped on first, not his own choice; Mickey had shoved him in the back, propelling him forward. He didn't push Jarvis or Chuck, and Sam sensed Mickey had singled him out. Sam wasn't exactly sure what he did to piss the brawny man off. The cop's deranged eyes settled on him the entire duration of their walk.
After all four men entered the elevator and the door closed behind them, Mickey punched the GROUND LEVEL button and their electronic casket descended. “Here we go.”
A few seconds later the elevator slowed turbulently, bouncing like a puppeteer yanked on the cables above, until finally they reached their destination.
“Not the smoothest ride...” Mickey admitted. The elevator doors retracted, and Mickey ushered them out like the place was on fire. “Hurry up,” he grumbled.
Down another long hallway with flickering florescent bulbs, the tall wooden courtroom doors stood, stained chocolate mahogany. Mickey rushed ahead with child-like excitement. He grabbed the satin nickel door handle and pulled it open, waving the three men inside, his face glowing with demented excitement.
“Destiny awaits,” he said, doing a terrible impersonation of a daytime game-show host.
Sam led the three of them inside. The second they entered the courtroom, the familiar odor hit them, its potency on a level they never experienced before. The miasma held the room hostage, causing Chuck t
o cough and gag, the heavy odor creeping down his throat.
Sam surveyed the room, barely able to stomach the putrid smoky stench; it didn't take long to spot the offender. Offenders, he thought. The jury box was occupied by twelve corpses, all of whom suffered a recent encounter with the sun. The exposure had baked their bodies, and if Sam didn't already know they were once human, they could have been mistaken for tree branches covered in dark sap. Sargent Mickey hadn't gone through great lengths to undress them, and most of the jurors sat with tattered garments. A woman in her forties, gristle hanging from the temples of her glasses. A man in his fifties sat, his mouth agape as if in his final moments he had made amends with his maker. A kid, no older than twenty, had clenched his eyes shut, unable to watch his own demise as the flames surrounded him, liquefied the flesh on his arms, neck, and face. A little girl, her pig tails caked and stiff with cooked fat and blood, sat in the front row, a confused expression forever planted on her little face, her lips twisted, forehead scrunched, and brow raised above her empty sockets. The rest of the jurors had no distinct traits detailing their last moments alive.
Sam dropped to his knees. Chuck puked behind the flagpole stand, unloading bile and other rank stomach fluids onto the faded blue carpet. Jarvis found it hard to keep his balance and placed a hand on the bench next to him.
The officer prodded the three men toward the defendant's box. Chuck, trembling with fear, stumbled and fell to the floor.
“Oh, Jesus-fucking-Christ,” Mickey said. He picked the man up with one hand, the other hand tightly gripping his .38, ready to blast away if Sam or Jarvis so much as flinched.
After getting his prisoners settled in the box, he turned and faced them, sticking his chest out proudly. “Let us face the flag,” he said, spinning on his heels to face the American flag Chuck had almost soiled. He put a hand over his chest and looked at Sam, Jarvis, and Chuck out of the corner of his eye, making sure they were following his lead. They did so after they noticed Mickey was still watching. “I pledge allegiance...”
After The Pledge was finished, he twirled back, glaring at them as if they were on trial for murder.
“I'll get Judge Murphy Fayden,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Yous be nice now.”
The second Mickey left the courtroom, Chuck screamed, “We need to get the fuck outta here, man!”
“Are you fucking nuts?” Jarvis whispered. “If he hears you, he'll kill us.”
Sam leaned over. “I have to go with Chuck on this one. Obviously this asshole isn't going to let us waltz out of here.”
“No shit.” Jarvis thought for a beat. Without warning, his eyes bulged and he snapped his fingers. “Guys, trust me.”
“Trust you how?”
Jarvis grinned and arched his brow. “No one knows crazy like I know crazy.”
The rifle felt alien in his hand, as if it had come from another dimension. He did as Tina instructed, everything except wrapping his finger around the trigger. He wouldn't do that unless he was ready to fire and Tina applauded his interest in safety. The last thing she wanted was the kid blowing his own hand off, or worse. Matty held the gun like it weighed thirty pounds, the barrel dipping as he aligned his eye with the receiver.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Like this.” She took the gun from him. “The stock goes under your arm like so.” She wedged the stock in her armpit and readied herself to aim. “Then take your left hand and place it on the forestock. Not too far down, not too far up. In the middle. It'll give you the best support.” She closed her right eye and held the .22 caliber Henry Golden Boy to her left. “You can rest your finger on the trigger guard until you're ready to fire, if you don't trust yourself keeping it on the actual trigger.”
“I don't trust myself.”
She grinned while wondering if this had been a mistake, if teaching him would cause more harm than good. Even though she was an expert, accidents happened. She saw them almost everyday at work. The gun freaks used to argue guns never killed people, people with guns killed people, but that wasn't always true. Guns killed people, too. Maybe not as much as people with guns, but there were always incidents. She had once responded to a six-year old who found his father's Glock and didn't know the difference between the actual weapon and the water gun he had been given on his fourth birthday. The kid killed his mother, pumping two bullets square in her chest and severely injured daddy. The local NRA chapter had a field day with the story, blaming the father for being a careless gun owner, and maybe that was true, but Tina—while being a gun supporter all her life—thought the gun had been the guilty party that day.
“You don't trust me either, do you?” Matty asked.
The memory of walking on the scene and seeing the kid's mother bleeding on the carpet while the six-year old slapped her face in desperation faded from Tina's thoughts. “No, it's not that. It's...”
“You can say it. I'm a klutz. I get it.”
“Matty, you're not a klutz. Just—I feel bad not asking your mother for permission.”
He chuckled. “Permission? Oh, jeez. I'll be sixteen next year. I don't think she needs to give me permission—”
“Still,” she interrupted. “You're her son. And I know if you were my child, I'd like a say in whether or not my kid is learning how to handle a gun.”
“Whatever. We need to gather more stuff and head back anyway. I want to grab some headlamps, backpacks for the rest of the group, some Carhartts, and as many MREs we can pack in those shopping carts.”
“MREs?” Tina asked. The acronym sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it.
“Meal Ready to Eat,” he explained.
Survival training, she remembered the second the words fell from his lips.
“They have a ton of them,” Matty said. “All of them are freeze-dried and will last up to twenty-five years. Soren said they have rooms full of them in Alaska.”
“Yeah, well, Soren said a lot of things. Not all of them are true.”
Matty didn't argue with her, although he wanted to. “Whatever. Help me?”
“Sure thing, kid.” Her attention turned back to the rack of guns. “But first...” She yanked a 12 gauge off the wall and presented it to him.”I want to show you how to load this puppy.”
He looked at the gun, then to her, seemingly unimpressed. “I thought we were over this. Thought you needed to ask my mom for permission.”
Ask for permission or for forgiveness?
“Well... it's the apocalypse. I don't see her having much of a problem with it.”
It was always better to ask for forgiveness.
-4-
The door leading to the judge's chambers opened, and The Honorable Murphy Fayden strolled through, shutting the door behind him with authority. “All rise,” Judge Fayden announced, although the only three men in the room—alive—were already standing. The Judge saluted the American flag and took a seat on the bench. He waved at the others, commanding them to do the same.
Sam, Chuck, and Jarvis exchanged identical glances: Is this guy fucking kidding me?
Judge Fayden wore a long black judicial robe, embroidered gold seams outlining the entire garment. Atop his head rested a bench wig, something Sam had only seen in European History books, Halloween stores, and Pirates of the Caribbean movies. The curly stark-white hair fell at his shoulders. Fayden glowered at the three offenders over glasses several sizes too small for his head. The whole look didn't fit, and Sam thought he looked more like a cartoon character than a Magistrate.
Jarvis almost lost it, subduing his laughter the moment before it left his mouth.
“Um, Sargent Mickey?” he asked. “I think—”
“It's Judge Fayden, boy. Sargent Mickey left to attend to some other important matters and will only be called upon for emergency situations.”
“Yeah...” Jarvis said, losing his wide smile. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”
The Judge shuffled through the papers on his desk, stopping to examine one. Sam doubted
there was anything important written on it, or anything at all, but Judge Fayden stared at it like it contained something enlightening. He wondered about Sargent Mickey, if he was truly an officer of the law or some deranged psychopath who stumbled across an empty police station and took on the role. Or several roles, in this bizarre case.
Sam glanced over at Jarvis. He was breathing differently, deeper, like an athlete about to step on the field for the biggest game of his career. He lowered his head, whispered silently to himself, prepping himself for what was to come. What exactly, Sam didn't know. On one hand Jarvis's “idea” scared the shit out of him. On the other, Sam didn't think Jarvis could say or do anything that would make their situation worse.
Trust me, Jarvis had said.
There really was no other choice.
“Court is now in session,” Judge Fayden said, smacking the bench with his gavel aggressively. “Case number 5607 dash 201, let's get started. The defendants,” he glared at the three of them contemptuously, “that's you three fucknuts—stand accused of ONE COUNT each, Jaywalking; ONE COUNT each, Breaking and Entering; ONE COUNT each, Possession of a Controlled Dangerous Substance; ONE COUNT each, Resisting Arrest; ONE COUNT each, Aggravated Assault on a Police Officer.” Fayden exhaled as if announcing the charges stole his breath away.
Hearing the charges aloud brought back dispiriting memories for Jarvis. Memories of sitting alone in the exact spot he was now, his good-for-nothing court-appointed lawyer seated next to him, telling him lies while Jarvis stared at the empty space in the audience where his parents should have been. A ghostly pain had slithered through his guts when the judge—a real judge—told him he was going to jail—a real jail—for what seemed like a long time, but not really in the grand scheme of things. I killed a child and only served fifty months in state prison, he thought. It was like he had gotten away with murder.
