Stories (2011)

by Joe R. Lansdale

  "There ain't much meat on you, I do confess. Some fat makes for better eating when it comes to roast meat."

  "I got some carrots, onions, potatoes and I can get some eggs. Wouldn't that taste better?"

  "Yeah and I bet you've got some Spam, pork and beans and sardines. Am I right, you lousy, no good, asshole THIEF?"

  "And you got a cute T-shirt and some Hanes underwear I think I might like to have. Fair exchange?"

  "Not on your life," Sally said, trying to keep a smile from flickering across her lips. The fall weather meant her legs were cold. And the T-shirt wasn't enough to protect her against the cold to come.

  "And tea. I got tea back at my sleeping space. Lipton or some Stash spice tea I've been keeping for just the right time. I'll share it with you if you don't kill me. That's a fine piece of gun you got there. I don't reckon I've seen one of them guns before. Not in these parts, anyway.

  You from the city?"

  "I want my food back."

  "I'll give it to you, just put the gun away. Okay? Let's be friends."

  Her dog, Little One, had done nothing. He had stood beside her, didn't growl and his tail began wagging.

  "Nice dog. What's its name?"

  "Little One."

  "He's not very little."

  "I know and if you are mean to me, one word and you're dead meat."

  "Okay."

  "So—do you want to go shopping with me? I need me some clothes." Mother and Sally used to go shopping. She would never forget shopping. That was another word for scavenging now.

  "Only if you don't kill me if we don't find much. There is this little clothes place that still has some wearable stuff. I bet you're kind of cold."

  Sally looked at her torn, smelly T-shirt. "Yeah, I am. Lead the way."

  The boy stood. He was a young man with long legs in worn jeans. The bare chest that showed through the opening of his button-less flannel shirt had brown hair on it while his shirt had sleeves that were far too short for his arms. He had some hair on his face, too, not a lot but enough to scare her just a little bit. At least it wasn't a lot and it looked kind of fine. Sally also realized he was a lot taller than she was. She followed him cautiously.

  He led her out of the library and down about three blocks or so, to a small department store.

  A few mannequins still stood in one display, miraculously sporting the latest in pre-Revolution, post-Republic of Texas fashion, cobwebby and filthy. But the shoes looked intact—sturdy black shoes that might fit. Hands slightly shaking, she snatched them and tried them on. He threw her some socks. She put them on and then tried the shoes. They fit. "This is good," she said. She didn't know how long they'd last but she'd take them.

  "The best clothes are at the back in a storeroom most looters miss," the young man said.

  "Okay. What's your name?"

  "Jim, James Leroy Carver. What's yours?"

  "Sally Louise Alice Mistral Corabeth Angelique Kiki Anne Robinson Lewis Thompson Johnson Mason Something or Other. In other words, I haven't the vaguest clue but I think my Mother called me Sally."

  "Well, dang, that's a mouthful, Sally." He smiled.

  Sally felt suddenly weak. He held out his hand. "Let's get you some new clothes. I could use some new trousers myself. These jeans are getting too tight."

  They were tight, she noticed, but didn't think that was such a bad thing.

  In the storeroom, the lantern came in handy. They tried on clothes, backs turned, used to nudity and unaware that seeing each other might provoke some strange feelings.

  She looked at him like a wolf looked at a wounded pig when his pants slipped to the floor so he could try some gray silky suit pants.

  "You don't got any underwear on. How come?"

  He seemed stunned and uncomfortable. "Just don't see the point."

  "Oh." She pulled on a short red skirt. "This is cute but I guess I need me some pants, too."

  He threw her some jeans. She tried them and grinned. "I can wear these. They fit. I want me a shirt with pockets. And a jacket and sweater, too."

  He grinned.

  "I need me a backpack better'n that thing of yours. How come you carry such a little baby backpack? Don't you need a bigger one now? You're a man, not a kid."

  "I guess I should. Never thought about it, really. Hey, thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I guess we're friends now."

  She tried on a jacket after shaking the dust out of it. "This could do with a wash in the creek.

  Mud Creek has a creek, doesn't it?"

  "Sort of. We can go bathe in the creek, if you'd like, but you can't swim with a gun."

  "I'd like that, Jim. But I want my food back first or I'm telling you I'll kill you and roast you for supper." She waved the Glock 19.

  "Put that away or we can't be friends," he said.

  –•–

  Jim had done more talking with Sally than he'd ever done with another human being. She talked so much that it shocked him. He talked so much he got hoarse. They talked at the creek before they got naked and jumped in. He had never seen such a pretty girl in his life, certainly not one his own age and certainly not one with a gun.

  He really wanted to look at the gun up close but she wouldn't let him. She made her dog sit on it while they swam.

  Jim wanted to touch her so badly he actually ached. It hurt to watch her breasts bob in the water. They swam closer and closer to each other. He shook the cold water out of his ears when he came up for air after a few strokes that brought him right next to her. He suddenly had to do something or burst. He grabbed her and kissed her. She resisted at first and then she kissed him back. They were kind of sloppy at kissing.

  It took a few tries before it felt right.

  They kissed a lot and then she got scared and swam away. She got into her clothes, whistled to her dog and left. Jim treaded water for a while and then he got out before his skin got all wrinkled. The sun was going down and the warmth of the moment had vanished.

  He waited for her to come back and get the food he'd stolen from her but she didn't. He didn't want to go all the way back into town to the SUV so instead he went to the rocket ship where he hid things.

  That night he sat alone outside the Rocket and looked at the stars and wondered what she thought about their kisses. Way out in the distance, coming from the mountains, he could see light. Fires. Someone was up there. He wondered if one of the lights belonged to the girl. He wondered if she were still alive or if some other man had her and was enjoying her.

  It was not a thing he liked to think about for very long. Then he thought about the ridge and the giant faces.

  He told himself that she was most likely not that far away. The lights from the fires looked near, but they were not. Maybe the beasts of the jungle were coming or the monsters or the cannibals. He wondered if they would come to the Rocket and find him. He feared that. He knew that he could stay inside his hiding place and finally figure how to close it up, and it would be impossible for them to come in after him, with him way up high, the hatch closed and air-tight. No one could ever get to him in here.

  Maybe that girl Sally had become a cannibal. Let her have that damn Glock 19 and that dog she liked to sleep with. Maybe she had fleas. Maybe if he slept with her he'd get fleas and they'd scratch themselves to death. If he did not get caught outside, nothing could happen. That was the thing to watch out for, not getting caught out where there was a chance of being hurt, captured, killed and eaten. Or maybe just his supplies taken, his rocket ship stolen by a girl who could grow up to be like, well, Mrs.

  There were other rockets. Someone like that girl could come along and move in next door.

  There could be a lot of people living in the rockets. They could call it Rocket City on Wuthering Heights Street. They could borrow tools and plant gardens and share and work their way straight into a Post-Revolution civilization. They could get that dang DVD player working again and th
e electric plant and make new Spam and pork and beans that never rotted.

  It was a pretty thought, but he knew it was just a thought. If more men and women like Sally came with guns, they would most likely kill him. They had formed their packs, and the packs were what they protected. If you were outside the pack, they wanted you dead; they wanted to eat you.

  He wondered if he would eat a human being, and knew, if there was no other food available, he would—easily—with or without potatoes. Sally had mentioned garlic. He liked garlic.

  He remembered his garden behind the garage growing in the moonlight. It was fat with vegetables, and he was pleased by the thought of the coming harvest. If he didn't go check on it, what would happen? The garden needed watering.

  Seemed like several days went by and he got bored waiting to see if Sally would come find him. She didn't so he decided to go into Mud Creek to just see what she was up to and check on his garden but he was afraid. What if she laughed at him?

  He lingered in the rocket ship, at the doorway, after checking his clothes, and he looked out, hoping she'd still come so he wouldn't have to search for her. He had slept poorly the night before, and while it was dark he had released the hatch and sat with his feet dangling out of the opening. Just sat there watching at the sunrise, as bright as red-orange trumpet flowers opening in the morning air.

  The air smelled rich with oxygen and the trees around him were bright green and the mountains in the distance shimmered a blue violet capped with white snow. He thought going to the mountains might be nice. It was cold up in the mountains and the air might be thin, still he might be able to breathe better, think better. The beauty might be enough to soothe his itch.

  But he decided he had a better chance of coming home if he went into town, and even that was not smart.

  He went anyway. He went back to the store where he first saw her.

  –•–

  Sally hid behind a stack of hardware when she heard him enter the store.

  He looked about, didn't see her. It was a large store. She knew he was looking for her. The store, an old Wal-Mart, had mostly been looted, but there were still tools lying about, and any one of them might make a good weapon.

  He didn't pick one up. Maybe he didn't want to look aggressive. Still, she couldn't be sure it was safe to be his friend. Could humans be friends now? Was she human? Could anyone be trusted after the Revolution? She crept backwards, trying to reach a back room.

  "I'm just lonely," he said out loud, and that surprised her. "I've seen you in your underwear, and you've seen me in less than that. We kind of know each other." He laughed. "We should at least be friends."

  And then she stood, at the back, just behind a door. But the door had not pulled back far enough. It had swollen and would only go so far, and he could see her right elbow poking out.

  "Look. I don't have a weapon. I know where you are. I don't want to hurt you. Wouldn't you like someone to talk to some more, Sally?"

  He stood still, waiting.

  She did not move.

  He said, "I have more fresh food. I could share it. I have some cocoa powder, too. I have a nice safe place to stay in the rockets. I don't want to hurt you."

  –•–

  The elbow moved.

  An arm appeared. Sally waved. "Hi, Jim."

  "Hi," he said.

  They embraced. She shivered in his heat.

  –•–

  He took her not to the rockets, but to the ridge. He wanted her to see the stone faces staring up into the stars that night they finally satisfied their hunger.

  The faces watched them make a fire. They ate and they mated like the animals in the jungle.

  He felt almost safe in her arms. Then he became frightened. Towards the chill of dawn he slipped from her sleeping form, gently disengaging her arms from his waist and pulling his blue blankie over her to keep her warm. Little One took his place. Sally moaned in her dreams but didn't awaken. He crept to the rocket where he hid things, where he felt truly safe. He fell asleep curled around his ratty backpack, The Jungle Book on his bare chest.

  Morning came. Jim rubbed his eyes as he heard something rustling. The hatch he had not been able to secure had betrayed him. She had found a way inside.

  Sally stood over him with her Glock 19.

  "I should kill you now, but I won't."

  Jim tried to snatch the gun. She drew back. Little One growled.

  "Go away!" Jim said.

  "I intend to do just that."

  "Go!" he said.

  "Well, I am. But do you want to go with me?" Her large eyes blinked away tears.

  Jim shook his head, confused. "This is my rocket. You leave, now!"

  "Jim, please—don't you understand? I'm taking this spaceship. I know how to activate it and I'm going home. The second I saw it, I remembered everything I'm supposed to do. Maybe my mother told me or something or somebody else. All I know is I've got to get out of here, now!

  I'm leaving this awful place. It's programmed to take us home."

  "Us? Home?"

  "We don't belong here, you know. We never did. We just got stuck here, that's what Mother said before she died."

  "No."

  "Yes. Now you must decide. You can either get out of this rocket or I'll kill you and throw you out and let what's left of the damn humans eat you for dinner."

  Jim pulled out his pocketknife.

  Sally pointed her gun.

  Little One whimpered behind her.

  Sally put one hand on a dull panel that burst into violet and orange hues that pulsated and hummed. "L21—00-systems go," she whispered.

  The rocket thrummed louder, a high-pitched keening. The long dead rocket had come to life, a silver bullet primed to erupt into the heavens.

  "You've got to get out if you're staying. You've got to decide. You're either in or you're out."

  Jim got to his knees and dropped his knife. He couldn't hurt her. "But this is my home. It's not yours."

  "Why can't it be mine, too? Why can't we just share it?"

  "You're stealing my safe place, my home." Jim tried to knock the gun out of her hand and she hit him. He grabbed her wrist.

  "How dare you?" she said. "Who are you?"

  They struggled for possession of the gun.

  She kicked him where it hurt the most. He let go, groaning. He had kissed her. He had . . .

  …loved her? Love. What did that word mean? Hell, what if she wasn't even human? Was she a lost wanderer? A gypsy? An alien monster?

  "I'm sorry. Oh, Jim, did I hurt you?" The gun slid down to the smooth reflective surface and they saw their own scared faces. She kicked the gun and the knife out of the hatch. Their reflections shimmered.

  "Yes, you did—but I hurt you first, didn't I?" Then he understood. If Sally was a lost wanderer, maybe he was too.

  "I don't want to be alone. I just want to go home."

  The hatch slid into place. The strangers stared at each other while the dog licked Jim's hand.

  "But where is home? Where are we going?"

  Sally didn't know.

  He didn't either.

  Maybe it was better that way.

  At least they could be alone together.

  And as far as home went, they'd figure that one out when they got there.

  Sally reached for Jim's hand, the one free of dog slobber. A half-smile touched her lips. Jim sighed as his fingers curled around hers. Maybe they were already there.

  Home.

  COAT

  When James saw the man in the streetlights, he hated him on sight because of the coat. It wasn’t fashionable. If the man had been unfashionable in all other ways he could have ignored it, but no, this was a man who should have known better. He was a man with a good shirt and slacks and fine tie, and the best shoes available, and yet, he wore a coat out of style and certainly one that did not make for a proper appearance. It was an odd coat of undetermined color and absolutely no substance. It had all the grace of a car wreck.
It flopped in the winter wind at the lapels like bat wings flexing, caught up in back and whipped backwards like the tail of a swallow.

  There was no excuse for it really.

  Sure, he saw plenty of unfashionable people, but this fellow must know better, having acquired the most fashionable and best clothes otherwise. It was not a matter of being uninformed, he was flaunting a disregard for the proper and the respectable, and was therefore insulting the very business James was a part of. Fashion design.

  There was no use calling him on it, James was certain. A man like that knew how things ought to be. A man with his hair perfectly cut and perfectly combed, and perfectly dressed, except for that horrid coat.

  Still, James found himself following the man, deeply bothered by it all. He was a man that understood fashion, and loved it, and believed it was more than an expression of self. That it was in fact, a kind of religion, and here was an insult to his religion.

  The man moved out of the street lights and into a dark alley near a stairwell, and James knew this was a bad place to be walking, but if the man was dull enough to do so, and in that horrid coat, then he would be brave enough to do so and call him on the matter after all. He found he just couldn’t let it rest.

  James followed as the man took the dark stairs, and when the fellow was halfway down, James called out, “Sir, that is an awful coat. I don’t mean to be rude, but really.”

  The man, nothing but a shadow on the stairs now, paused, looked back. “My coat?”

  “Of course,” James said. Do I have on a horrid coat? I think not, and nor should you, this is the finest and best of this year’s fashion that I’m wearing. Perhaps last year, next year, it will be out of favor, but it is all the rage for now, and you, sir, have plenty of fine fashionable coats to pick from, though I, of course recommend my own brand of coat..”

  “What?” said the man in the shadows.

  “The coat,” James said. “Your coat. It’s hideous.”