by Weston Ochse
"So I had this idea during dinner, you know. Something, that I think, might let us live."
All eyes went to Sissy, even Buckley's. As timid as a mouse, she rarely spoke, so rarely that her voice always sounded a little strange to Buckley. Then he noticed that the others had shifted their gaze and were staring at him. Buckley felt immediately uncomfortable, and for once understood how the babysitter felt when the Adams' children looked at her in that horrifying book by Mendal Johnson. If he had to bet, this was the end. Sometime during dinner they'd decided to push him out the door with the dead gangbanger as part of some whacked out plan to save them, and they were using cute little Sissy, the Stepford Barbie twin to Marsha Brady, to break the bad news.
"Did you hear me, Mr. Adamski? I had this idea."
"I heard you."
"Are you ready?"
How could I be ready? Are you ready to be hit by a car in the crosswalk? Are you ready to be crushed by a falling piano? Are you ready for maggies to infect you because one of the people who were supposed to be watching the door was fucking in the next room, smoking stogies and talking about flame-ons and hard-ons and sweaty Cuban thighs. Could anyone be ready? Fuck it. “I’m ready.”
"Okay," she began, offering an embarrassed smile to the others. "Bear with me a moment, will you? What kills maggies?"
Buckley wasn’t expecting a game show. “Things That Kill Maggies” for a Hundred, Alex. Was this some sort of test? He looked around the room. The others nodded, indicating that he should ask. But he didn't want to. He’d much rather have a bottle of vodka and a pistol. Perhaps on or near the bottom of the bottle he'd find the courage for what they wanted of him, because now he was scared. The way they all looked at him was unnerving.
"Come on. I know you know this,” Sissy insisted. “What kills maggies?"
Buckley shrugged, the motion sending handfuls of salt cascading down his shoulders.
Sissy shook her head and smiled. "Salt, silly. Salt kills maggies.”
Buckley glanced around the room. The others were still grinning stupidly at him, as if he'd come in first place at a Krishna Death Lottery. He didn't get it. What was going on? What was she talking about? Of course salt kills maggies. Why else was he wearing this year’s Armani salt attire? "Okay. I don’t get it."
Finally MacHenry jumped in. "Adamski, you can be fucking dense sometimes. Where’s the most salt on the planet?"
Buckley shrugged again. The others were creeping him out. “I give up. The world’s largest salt lick?”
Sissy laughed and shook her head. "In the ocean of course. The most salt is in the ocean and it covers two-thirds of the Earth’s surface." And with that, Sissy sat back, low-fived Little Rashad, and grinned like she’d just invented Pythagorean’s Theorem.
All eyes once again turned to him. What was this? What did they expect of him? Then his jaw dropped as hope shivered through his body. Why hadn't he thought of that? Oh my God!
"In the ocean. Of course," he repeated in monotone.
Samuel nodded. "I think he's getting it."
"I was the same way," MacHenry said. "How the hell did we miss that?"
"The eight hundred pound gorilla," Gert said.
"Two-thirds of the earth’s surface," Samuel said.
"More than that," Sissy offered, "hope."
"Yeah. Hope." For the first time since his infection, Buckley felt it. Deep down in his heart where butterflies hung upside-down from electrified power lines, he felt the algebraic possibility of life. There was an equation, there was a solution, he just needed to figure the variable. If he could somehow manage that, he might actually live.
"So how are we gonna get there through all them maggies?" Samuel looked at the shotgun in his hands and frowned. "We don't have enough firepower to even get outside our own door."
"Oh come on. It shouldn't be too hard. It's only a few miles."
"Gert's right," MacHenry said, reaching out and touching her hand. "It's only a few miles. A few miles through a few million maggies, and oh, let's not forget the caddies."
Maggies the size of Cadillacs, Buckley reminded himself. "Yeah, I remember." He remembered too well. Every end of the world saga, every George Romero picture, every Night of the Comet or Triffid or Lepus B-movie he'd ever seen on late night television had served as a syllabus for survival.
Running down the street, his side ripping with the pain of exertion, only panic fueling his spent muscles. Sounds of his heavy panting and screams in the distance. A rusty bicycle chain squeals directly behind him. Exhaustion. He slows as his legs reach the catastrophic limits of middle age, traitors to games of football, tag, Marco Polo and keep away that had been their genesis. He curses aloud over his shoulder at the thirteen year old boy on the bike with paperboy saddlebags. In panic, Buckley turns back, almost stumbling to the ground, but somehow manages to keep running. To his left a man does a maggie dance as a wave of the creatures consume him. To his right, half a block away, a horse drawn cart stands out of place. Suddenly, a great worm the size of a small semi, curls around the corner of a building and snaps the horse up and away. Gasping for air, Buckley grudgingly slows. He turns and fires his pistol three times. An empty bicycle tumbles past him.
But he needs to decide. Will he allow the tiny beasts to devour him as he waits to die in this top floor apartment, or will be try and do something to survive. The salt had slowed their gestation, but he couldn't keep it up. His stomach was a miasma of gut-wrenching agony. Man had never been meant to digest so much salt. As it was he felt as if he'd drunk a good portion of the Atlantic, but this was just the beginning. He would get worse and with it the pain. He had a small window of chance and if he didn't take it, he might never be able to.
And he did have an idea. "It might work, you know?"
"What might work?"
"Remember when I mentioned earlier that I had an idea about making some North Carolina Cocktails. Now I think we can add a twist."
"Yummee. Love the twist," giggled Grandma Riggs.
"No Granny. Think Molotov, not Martini." He grinned quickly. "Now if we can get someone to run across the street and get us some supplies, we’d be perfect. Any volunteers?"
"You want us to go outside?" Gert asked.
"We’re gonna have to sooner or later. I mean, we’re going through salt like a fast food franchise. It's the only thing we got going for us, and the longer we stay here without finding a way to replenish our stores, the harder it's going to be to leave."
MacHenry stood and stalked across the room. He paused in front of the picture of The Screamer for a moment, then turned. "How do we know we can trust you?"
Buckley shrugged. "I’ve been drinking and eating extra salt. I think I’ve slowed down the process."
"What's to keep you from going crazy?"
"I don't know, Gert. I mean, maybe maggies affect people differently. Maybe I'll never go crazy. Maybe this is crazy. Maybe my entire idea is crazy, I just don’t know."
"Okay. I trust you, but we all have to agree." MacHenry turned to the rest of the group. "This is still a democracy, grant you a small one, but a democracy none-the-less. So what say everyone?"
Little Rashad stood before he spoke. "I trust Mr. Adamski."
"I trust him too," Sissy said softly.
Even Gert agreed, but worry clouded her gaze.
But Samuel was another matter. He stepped forward and sneered. "You killed my girl because she was infected. I feel like I should kill you the same. It'd be fair. No one would even have the right to stop me." He took another step forward. "You know that you deserve to die, don't you?"
Buckley held the boy's gaze for a moment then nodded solemnly.
Samuel shook his head. "By all rights I could kill you and it'd be no different than what you did to Lashawna. She deserved better. You didn’t know her, but she was special. More than that, she was my girl. But I think you’re our best chance. I think you’ll make the difference between living and dying. And fuck if I like it." Samuel
's sneer fell into a frown as he whispered, "Fuck you Buckley Adamski. Count me in, too."
After a moment, MacHenry turned to the old woman. "How about you Grandma?"
Grinning wickedly, Grandma Riggs quoted Thomas. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
MacHenry rolled his eyes. "She’s loaded. Smoked too much of that shit."
"No, she ain't," Little Rashad squeaked. “I mean, yes she is, but she means yes too. Her vote is for Mr. Adamski."
Gert shook her head as if to try and rattle the words into place. "I don't get it."
"She says don’t die easy," the boy explained. "She means we should keep Mr. Adamski around."
Everyone stared first at Grandma Riggs who smiled and bobbed her head to some private rhythm, then at Little Rashad, clearly unable to come to terms with how the boy was able to translate the old woman's apparently insane rants. Finally MacHenry broke the silence. "Well, there we go. Buckley, you have a reprieve. As long as you help us, we’ll let you live. Fuck up once and we kill you. Can you live with that?"
Buckley shrugged. "Even better, I can die with it."
MacHenry stepped back and held out his hand. "Then the floor’s yours again."
"Right." Buckley got to his feet, the salt sheeting off him and pooling at his feet as if he'd just popped free from an hour glass. "In that case, who’s coming with me?"
Everyone found a spot to stare into, but no one spoke up. Even Grandma was silent.
"Come on. What have you got to lose? Come with me and you have a chance. Stay here you're dead."
"How do you know that?" Gert stood, her hands on her hips. "Maybe Samuel’s right, Mr. Adamski. Maybe the only threat to us surviving is you. You're the only one infected. Maybe we should do with you what we did with that girl, or even that dead boy you've been sitting on."
MacHenry reached out to grab her, but she jerked away. "No! I won't shut up. Maybe these things will go away. Maybe they'll move on. Look around you. We've managed to fortify this place so that even the flies can't get in. I've lived in North Carolina for forty years and never once had a place without flies." Her face red, a tear coursed down her cheek.
"And maybe they won't go away," Buckley countered. "Maybe they're moving through the streets, searching everywhere for food. Maybe they're hungry, starving even. Maybe, just maybe," he said licking his lips and making sure everyone was looking at him, "we're the only food left in the entire city and every maggie within twenty miles is heading in our direction."
"You don't know that." Her fear made her ugly.
"Just like you don't know that you'll remain safe in here. Sure it looks good now, but what will you do when you run out of food or water, which, eventually, will happen. What then?"
"We'll make that decision when we come to it,” Gert held fast.
"By then you may not be able to." He lowered his voice. "Listen Gert. I'm dying here. There's little chance I'm going to recover, and even less chance I'll make it all the way to the ocean, but I'm willing to help everyone if I can. Sure it would be easier to let Samuel kill me or have me walk out into the hall to be with Sally. Sometimes when the salt in my gut is trying to claw back up, and the maggies are snap-crackle-popping out of my skin I wished I was dead. But what I'm talking about is a chance to live. You do want to live, don't you?"
"Of course I want to live," she scoffed. "Don't treat me like a child."
"How much of a chance are you going to have to live when I'm dead, Grandma begins screaming from the pain when she runs out of crack, and one of you gets hurt, or worse, infected? Right now we're as strong as we're going to get. Every second after this one we're getting weaker."
"But I don't want—" She never finished, instead she covered her face, her hands hiding the sobs that racked her shoulders.
Buckley stepped across the line of salt and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know, Gert. You shouldn't have to lose him. Listen, I'll go alone. I think I can make it. It's only just down the street, anyway."
MacHenry slid next to Gert and put his arms around her. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crux of his shoulder. Buckley backed away and allowed them what privacy they could get.
"I'm going with you," Samuel said.
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm going too. You can't do this alone. For these folks to survive, you're going to need me."
"Okay." Buckley nodded, happy that he wasn't going by himself. "Just so you stay in front where I can cover you."
"I don't think so. You stay in front. I don't want you going crazy on me."
"Fine, but I get the shotgun.”
"No problem," Samuel grinned, as he held up both of Bennie's 9mm pistols. "I get these muthas."
CHAPTER 17
There was a time when Sissy had wanted to be a school teacher. Her mother, her father, even her grandmother had told her that she'd be great with kids. So it was her lot growing up she'd been just a little more responsible than everyone else. When the other girls went to dances, she'd stayed home reading. When classmates called her for the rare sleepover-invite, she'd always declined, remembering how her mother ascribed association with the other girls as a 'slippery slope to dangerous waters,' as if the girls were crocodiles and she were the wayward lamb limping naively along the shore.
Her life had already been mapped out for her. Four years at Converse College, the all girls' institution in Spartanburg, South Carolina and her mother's Alma Matter. After that it was on to graduate school at Vassar, then on to a fellowship at Biltmore Academy for Girls located west of Ashville in the Smokey Mountains. All Sissy Buchanan had to do was show up, be polite, smile nicely and her future was secured. Sure she'd never been on a date with a boy, and sure she'd never gone to the movie theater, but that was a small price to pay for such a perfect future.
At least that was the pill she'd been forced to swallow for eighteen years.
Live for tomorrow.
Don't do anything you'd regret.
Set the example.
Be responsible.
Everything she'd ever done had been in preparation for the life that had been planned for her. And she hated her mother for it. Sissy had spent the best years of her life coddled in the promises of a bright future only to discover that the world had no future. There was no Converse College. Vassar was an abattoir of post-graduates baking in the noonday sun. Nowhere were children preparing for private school hurriedly gulping orange juice and toast before they hopped in their daddy's Mercedes. Instead they were... she breathed deeply as she tried to block the image.... instead they were all dead.
Where did that leave her? She blushed at the thought. Instead of dwelling on what she'd never have, she voiced the other thing that had been haunting her.
"It feels weird."
"Everything feels weird, honey," Gert said. She'd just put a clean sweater around the old woman's shoulders. No sooner had she returned to her place on the couch, than Grandma Riggs had lit up a rock, the sound of the smoking like a piece of gravel in a vacuum cleaner.
"No, what I mean is, we used to trust Mr. Adamski and now he’s...he’s—"
"Dead," Grandma Riggs finished.
"The walking dead," Gert added. "Like a zombie."
"It must be scary to know you’re gonna die like that."
"I don’t know, maybe it's comforting."
What an odd thing to say. Sissy turned and looked at Gert to see if she was kidding, but the woman was as straight-faced as could be. "What do you mean?"
"That's what we want, isn't it? To know? Death isn't so bad, I guess. What makes it so scary is that we don't know when it's going to happen. We don't like surprises."
"And now he knows."
"And he isn't scared."
"I still feel bad for him."
"Are you scared girl?" Grandma Riggs stared blindly at her through blackened opaque frames, the result unnerving.
"Isn’t everyone?" she murmured.
"I haven’t been afraid of
death for years."
"But the drugs..." Gert began before she decided she'd said too much.
Grandma Riggs held up her pipe and beamed. "This shit? This is for the pain, and the fun."
Sissy blushed and looked away.
Gert smiled, crossed her arms and stared at the wall. "If I knew I was gonna die," she said, "I think I’d be selfish. Maybe get a box of chocolates, some music, maybe MacHenry and me..."
"Poor girl," Grandma Riggs whispered.
Gert's mouth opened as if to ask what the old woman meant, but Sissy spoke first.
"I don’t know what I’d do. I mean, I know I may die, but I don’t want to."
"Then don’t," Gert snapped.
"If only it were that easy. All the Maggies out there, I just don’t think we'll make it."
"There's always a chance? Don't lose hope."
"It’s true," Grandma Riggs smirked, stroking her pipe. "Jesus designs the playing field and makes all the rules, but we’re the ones who play the game. He doesn’t. We make our own future."
MacHenry ambled into the room. He tilted his head towards the bedroom. "Uh...Gert? Wanna come take a look at this?"
Gert's face reddened.
Sissy's did as well and she giggled nervously.
"Please tell me you don’t have any chocolates," Gert said.
"Uh...No. Was I supposed to have some?"
Gert got to her feet and leaned into him. She kissed him deeply, a hand gripping his collar. "No, silly. I hate chocolates." She flashed a grin at Sissy and Grandma Riggs over his shoulder.
"Then why did you ask?"
Gert laughed. "You can be so dense sometimes, Travis MacHenry."
