by Weston Ochse
It was Little Rashad. Through the boy’s tears, Buckley saw fierce determination. As brave as the boy was trying to be, each of Sally's screams from the hall outside produced a flinch in the kid’s small thin frame.
Buckley grabbed the bucket and poured half of the contents on Lashawna’s face and the other half along her body. No more than five seconds passed before a tiny plume of smoke escaped from her nose.
“See? I fucking told you. Now, no more messing around. One more mistake like that could mean all of our deaths." It’d been too close.
"Fuck this. This shit is gonna stop," murmured Samuel, reacting to the helpless stares of his companions. The screaming from the other side of the stout wooden door had gone on for far too long and was making everyone a little weak in the knees. "Those things killed my girl, so I'm gonna kill them."
"I got yer back," a slim Italian kid added, gesturing aggressively with a set of matching pistols he jerked from the waist band of his nylon pants.
“You know what? I don’t care,” Buckley said. “You two wanna die, go ahead."
Bennie, until recently an upwardly-mobile crack salesman, gave in to the instincts that had kept him out of jail and invisible during a dozen drive-bys. He sagged against the wall, his courage smothered by Buckley’s logic. He was dead, but not yet. There seemed to be no consoling Samuel, however. Unless he was given something to keep him busy, he’d end up joining his dead girlfriend.
"Samuel," Buckley said to the other boy, "go check the windows. Gotta make sure we ain't being flanked."
"Damn, Adamski," came a gravel voice from behind him. "Them things aren’t gonna get in. We took care of the windows. Hell, my hands still hurt from all the hammering."
Buckley stared hard at the old man sitting on the edge of the couch. His name was Travis MacHenry and on a used car lot he was a god. But they weren’t on a used car lot. This was a war zone and here, sales acumen meant little to nothing. When they'd arrived, one of Buckley’s first moves was to remove all the interior doors except the one to the master bedroom and nail them over the windows. Although the doors were still wood and wouldn't last forever with the maggies constant gnawing, they'd at least delay the little bastards enough to provide the group a fighting chance. Buckley blinked slowly at the old man, a look he’d perfected on the streets. The blink said more than a thousand words.
You mean shit to me.
MacHenry read it right and dropped his eyes to the floor.
Buckley repeated himself. "Like I said, Samuel, get your fat ass down the hall and check on the windows."
Samuel looked longingly at Lashawna's body. They’d known each other since high school. He was the football player and she’d been the cheerleader. They’d been lovers. They’d been friends. Now, along with every other dream he’d held dear, she was gone. Buckley ordered him again. Finally, the boy lowered his head and ambled his three-hundred pounds down the hall, the barrel of his own Mossberg shotgun guiding the way.
With the exception of Grandma Riggs smoking the hell out of Bennie's crack in the middle of the living room and cackling at the antics of non-existent actors on the blank TV screen, the rest were silent, their eyes on Buckley, their ears attuned to the screams.
Their immediate problem was a simple one. Sally Struthers was infected. That wasn't her real name, but that's what everyone called her. A plump, saggy blonde, she’d been attempting to round up the children, trying in vain to save them. So far she’d only found one, Little Rashad, a lean ten-year-old who was now sitting with his back to the wall trying to act tough. Sally, who’d braved the streets way past the point of suicide, was now being digested by the maggies and all Buckley could do was wait for the screaming to end.
And in all honesty, that's all he intended to do.
There was just no way to fight them.
Within the decaying miles of his native state were a billion billion writhing forms in search of the living to promote their single-minded existence. No one really knew what they were. The smaller ones looked like maggots and during the first few days, when there were still newspapers and television, the term maggie became the popular name. Demons, aliens, maggots, miniature pink fucking elephants with an attitude, the name really didn't matter. What did matter was that there were different kinds, now. No longer were they just the common tiny white motes of wiggly nastiness.
There were the smokers—as long as a finger and smoky gray. Inching like slugs along the ground they were slow, but their slime was an acid that seemed able to eat through most anything, especially wood.
There were the swimmers-- amphibious beasts that were all mouth and had depleted the fresh water fish supply along the Cape Fear within days and were best known to slide through the sewers, injecting themselves into unprotected asses.
Then there were the caddies-- long and low-slung like their vehicular counterparts. According to the television, they didn't attack people. Their preferences were for glass and steel. They’d first been seen in Raleigh, back when there was a Raleigh. Their slow moving hulks left trails of digested planet in their passage. The few skyscrapers that had pierced the Wilmington skyline were now miserable masses of rubble. Buckley could only pray that the caddies would leave their poor building alone.
The creatures had originally surged forth from somewhere in the Smokey Mountains. The combined might of sixty thousand soldiers at Fort Bragg to include the elite Delta Force and two Special Forces groups had failed to even halt them. Like speed bumps, the Warriors of Democracy only slowed the massed enemy as battalion upon battalion became the snack food of creatures with no political preference.
It seemed as if nothing was able to stop their brand of evil. Nothing that is, except salt. That's why places like the Outer Banks and other islands off the coast had yet to be attacked. Salt acted upon the creatures like an acid and before the group had holed up in the bar, they’d collected quite a stash.
Buckley sighed as a song from Grandma Riggs interlaced with the screams from Sally outside.
"Two little girls dressed all in white,
Tried to get to heaven on the tail of a kite.
The kite string broke and down they fell,
They didn't get to heaven, but landed in hell."
Little Rashad and Bennie grinned broadly. Even Buckley cracked a smile. Gert, however, was fed up with everything and Grandma was the straw.
"Grandma, you better lighten up on that shit or it's gonna kill you," the fifty year old whore said. Ever friendly, her demeanor was undergoing a change as she realized her body wouldn't get her out of this one.
"Hell girl. Them damn maggies are gonna get me long before my brain rots away. I might as well enjoy my last few days.” Grandma sucked on her pipe. “Don’t you think?"
They’d picked up the old woman passed out in the front seat of an old Plymouth Valiant. Blind as a bat, she’d gone out looking to score some marijuana to ease the pain of her glaucoma. With her chocolate-chip cookie charm, it hadn’t taken her long to wheedle the ten grand worth of ice from Bennie who’d merely shrugged and said, 'Take it. No one to sell it to now, no how. Like money means anything anymore.'
Gert frowned, but beneath her ugly glare was the softness of the mother she’d never be, and Grandma Riggs was becoming the child she could never have. "Fine then. But if you puke all over yourself again, I ain't gonna clean it up." She stroked the old woman’s long hair. “You just be quiet now.”
Sally's screams crescendoed, as if her flesh were being ripped from her body. So went Buckley’s determination. The others were right. It was too much. Sally’s continuous shrieks were getting under everyone's skin. He could feel the tension in the air as everyone stared at him, waiting, begging for the command. Sally had been one of them and they couldn't let her die this way.
"Ahhhh, hell. Here we go.” Everyone shifted in anticipation. “Samuel, grab the emergency bucket from the kitchen. Bennie, hold the knob. When I say go, you open that motherfucking door, count to five and then slam it shu
t. Do you hear me boy?"
Bennie nodded fast and hard.
"Now, MacHenry, you shove Lashawna outside just as soon as we open it. Her body will make a buffer and give us a few seconds as the damnable things fry upon her salt."
MacHenry backed away.
Samuel seemed as if he was about to argue.
"Hey! You tough guys want the screaming to end, then don't get mushy on me. This fine young black woman is gone and there's nothing we can do about it. But if she stays here, she'll bloat up and explode with their eggs. I've seen it happen. I’ve seen respect for the dead kill people." He lowered his voice and placed a hand on Samuel's shoulder. "I'm sorry, son. This is hitting you hard, I know. But it has to be done the way I say it has to. Understand?"
Samuel returned the stare. The garbage man saw the cool fire of tempered anger. He recognized it for what it was. The boy wasn't mad at him, merely the world for what had happened.
Samuel nodded slowly. “I understand.”
"All right. And no ogling. You just concentrate on your counting, Bernie. You get to six and it could mean all of our deaths."
Bennie grinned like the way he’d probably done the first time he’d seen a friend gunned down after a drive-by.
Buckley grabbed one of Bennie's Nines. He propped the butt of the shotgun against his leg and held the pistol eye high, aiming down the barrel.
"All right, Samuel. When I say throw, you hurl the salt. You got that?"
Samuel nodded just as hard and just as fast as Bennie had.
Buckley waited for MacHenry to grab the dead girl under her arms and lift her up. They exchanged looks and everything was ready.
"Go!"
It was a horrific five seconds.
Sally, her face half eaten, her body a colander of maggie holes...Lashawna's body landing at Sally's feet...maggies, noticing Buckley and the fresh meat of the girl turning and moving...pistol firing, a hole appearing in the center of Sally’s forehead, her misery ending...a hundred maggies shifting from her legs in a wave of dedicated death, slithering for the door...shotgun opening with both barrels, salted grape-shot halting the first charge...Sally's eyes convulsing, staring a grotesque come-hither farce.
"Throw!”
A shower of salt hit the body. Putrid steam rose as the maggies melted in a runny gray slime.
"Now!"
And the door slammed shut.
Buckley spun and placed his back against the wall, breathing heavily. Sissy, a lithe blonde who had until recently been at NCCU studying to be a civil engineer, hurried to the door and poured a line of salt along the bottom edge. Buckley smiled through clenched teeth, his black skin shiny with sweat. "There,” he said tossing the shotgun back to Samuel who caught it clumsily. "Is everybody fucking happy, now?"
CHAPTER 4
Buckley stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka from one of the many cases stacked along one wall. He jerked out a chair and sat cowboy style. His hands began to shake as he spun the cap. Buckley concentrated on getting drunk, the image of Sally Struthers’ ravaged body chiseled upon his memory. No one should ever die like that. He drank long and deep.
"Mr. Adamski? Are you okay?"
Buckley opened one eye, the rush of alcohol scouring his system. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided the effort was too much. He nodded and worked his lips into what he hoped was a believable smile.
Little Rashad, wearing a shirt that read Wright Brother’s Band Camp, didn't return the smile. Instead, he bit his lip to keep it from trembling. His eyes swam with unreleased tears. "Sally? Is she dead, mister?"
Buckley left the bottle on the table and held out his arms, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of the kid. The woman had saved the boy and was probably the closest thing he’d had for a mother except the old whore, Gert, or Sissy, who’d probably never changed a diaper.
The boy ran into his arms and sobbed.
"Yeah, she's dead, kid."
"Did you shoot her?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you," the boy said, wiping at an eye. "Did they...did they get her?"
"Just barely, son," Buckley said, remembering his clear view of Sally’s gnashing teeth through the hole her cheek had once filled and Maggies dancing disco where her tongue had been. "She was just real scared is all." He eyed the bottle and squeezed the boy tighter. "Real scared."
The rattle of a lonely sob shook the boy’s chest. Buckley rubbed Little Rashad’s back with his large hands and then pulled him away from his shoulder, holding him at arm's length.
"All right now. That's no way to be. I'm Irish you see? And we don't cry at funerals. We celebrate the person's life.” He shook Rashad gently. “It's called a wake son. Do you understand what I’m saying?"
The boy eyed him suspiciously. "You ain't Irish. You're black like me. And Polish too. Sally told me when I asked about your name."
Buckley grinned. "Sally was right on with her info, little man. I was the only Black Irish Pollack on the entire staff of the Wilmington Public Works Department." He leaned in close and spoke conspiratorially. "What good old Sally didn't know to tell you was that my Daddy's mother was pure Irish. She had red hair if you could imagine, flaming red hair that caught the eye of my grandpa right off. But don't tell no one because people are prejudice against Irish people. Don’t want someone being prejudiced against me, you know."
Little Rashad nodded solemnly, but his lips still quivered.
Buckley grabbed him by his shoulders. "My mother also liked poetry. Do you read poetry? Did your mommy and daddy read you poetry?"
The boy shook his head. At the mention of his mom and dad, a tear sprung in the corner of his eye and welled there.
Buckley ignored it and kept on talking. "Well my mom did, and not just any old poetry, either. She read the greats to me. Wordsworth. Whitman. Blake. Coleridge. Dylan Thomas. My two favorite poems were Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner and Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. Did you ever hear Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night in school?"
The boy shook his head again. His lip had stopped quivering and his whole attention was on Buckley.
"Let me see if I can remember." It had been a while since he'd recited the poem. Somehow he was able to pry it loose from all the recent bad memories. Here you go—
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
"Say it with me, Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Little Rashad said the words.
"Know what they mean?"
The boy shook his head.
"It's easy boy. The trick with poems is that everything is symbolic. What someone says isn't always what they mean. Take light for example. The light is life. Rage means to fight. And night means death. So do not go gentle into that good night, means don't go towards death. Rage against it. Fight it. Fight the dying of the light."
The boy blinked and nodded slightly.
"Do you get it boy?"
"Rage," he whispered.
"Exactly that, boy. Rage against the dying of the light." Buckley took a swig from his bottle, returned it to the table, then held the boy back so he could look at his shirt. "So, it says here that you're in the band, huh?" Buckley felt his mouth slipping. The bottle was half empty and the dirge was upon him.
Little Rashad brightened up considerably. "Yessir."
"So whaddaya play?"
"The trumpet."
"Like Louis Armstrong trumpet or Chuck Mangione trumpet?"
The boy stared back in confusion.
"That's right. Old Chuck doesn't play the trumpet. He plays that big bell thing. And even if he did, you’re probably too young to remember them. Still, I bet you can play real good, can't ya?"
Little Rashad smiled, "Sure can, wanna hear?"
"Maybe later boy. Maybe later we can scare those damned Maggies away with your playing. Maybe we can scare them right back to where the
y came from. Right now, though, we got some business to attend to. You and me are part of a wake. So what you drinking?"
The lean boy stared at the bottle of vodka for a moment then searched around the kitchen crowded with boxes from the restaurant and bar below. He spied a case of root beer, walked over, pulled a can out and popped the tab.
Buckley nodded sagely. "Good choice. Nothing like a good beer to toast a wake."
Little Rashad sat down next to Buckley and drank half the can down before pausing. He burped long and loud, looked nervously towards the front door, then slid closer to Buckley.
Chapter 5
Stenciled beneath the words KINGMAN INDUSTRIES was a warning to never shut the door while inside. The little girl knew this meant that she couldn't get out once they shut the door, but she was too scared about everything else to concentrate on this one minor detail. Still, as her mother shoved her farther into the walk-in refrigerator, the little girl’s eyes strayed once again to the warning. Then she remembered where she was and what was going on. She didn't want to get out. The safest place for her was inside. Her mother and father had said so.
A scream wound around four gunshots. Glass crunched beneath something immense. Another shot. Illuminated only by the emergency light on the back wall, her mother glanced over her shoulder towards where her dad had to be.
"Hurry before it’s too late!" Her dad fired once more then shrieked.
Her mother stared at her wide-eyed for a moment, then slammed the door shut. "I love you Nikki. Be safe," came muffled through the door.
"No, mommy! No! Don't leave me." Nikki launched herself at the metal that separated them and beat against it with her tiny fists. "Mommy please don't leave me."
The unmistakable sound of her mother screaming silenced the girl, then the door shook as an immense weight shoved against it. Nikki ran back to the corner where they'd placed a box of food and bottles of water. She crouched and sobbed into her arm. Her mother had said to be quiet. She'd said not to make a sound. The door shook once again as if something was trying to get inside. Nikki covered her face and bawled into her hands.
