by A. R. Shaw
Macy led them in a crouch as they scurried along, armed with only the metal ruler and plastic ice scraper. With overnight bags flung over their shoulders, they made their way through the tiny passages left open between cars. They leaped up and over the hood of an Escort that had rammed against a 4Runner. Checking behind them for any threat, they stopped occasionally to listen carefully before resuming their escape to the concrete barrier.
Finally, when it was within sight, Marcy pulled Macy’s sleeve. “I thought you said to Mr. Sanchez’s,” she protested breathlessly, “but this is way farther!”
“Come on, Marcy. It’s not much longer—look!”
They were squatting behind the rear bumper of a dirty white Impala. Standing up slightly to get a better view, they were shocked to see several dead bodies. They looked like they’d been struck down in an attempt to confront whatever officers might lay beyond. There were dark blood smears where animals must have fed on them. Their scattered remains were all over the roadway.
“Oh God,” Marcy said, and covered her mouth before she bent to heave.
Macy just stared beyond the carnage, forcing herself to plan a route. Patting Marcy on the shoulder she said, “I know it’s bad, but look over this way. We can make our way over to the edge where there’s a crack between the barrier and the railing. We can push back the barbed wire above it. I think we can squeeze through there to the other side.”
Marcy began to sob in fearful desperation. “It really smells bad, and there are all these bodies. Let’s get out of here before the dogs come back.”
Macy realized this could be the beginning of one of Marcy’s famous breakdowns and pulled her behind her at a crouch. “Come on, Marcy. We have to get through here,” she said.
Macy knew she and her twin were always on the too-thin side, something they had often been teased about. But now this enabled a hasty escape, squeezing in between and under the coiled barbed wire traversing the top of the barrier. Holding their bags out to her side, Macy went through first. She pulled her bag through and then reached for Marcy’s. She looked around at the scene before her on the police’s side. After Marcy had come through, they both stayed hunkered in their corner before coming up with the next plan of action.
At least the bodies were behind them now, though the twins could still smell their stench. Before them were four police cars, arrowed inward on each side, with blue strobe lights working on one of them.
Waiting and listening, they remained in their spot to assess the situation. Finally, Macy said, “I don’t think there’s anyone here. We should go over there to the last car on our side and see if we can find the keys. Then we can back it up and take off from there.”
“You can’t steal a police car, Macy.”
Ignoring her sister, Macy took off, scurrying to the end of the first car. Rather than be left behind, Marcy quickly followed.
Seeing no live souls nor roaming dogs in the vicinity, the twins inched their way past the first car. They squatted down next to the one beyond it on the passenger side. Then, they slowly stood and noticed a decaying form, lying back on the reclined driver’s seat; Macy declared this guy “way dead.” With the driver’s door left open he looked like he must have passed right there, on duty, days before.
Macy bent low and around the back of the car, where they came abruptly face to face with a panting German shepherd who scared the hell out of them both. Panicked, Macy jumped backward into Marcy, causing the two of them to scream out and land in a heap.
The dog had spotted them long before they’d crossed the barrier. He had not seen humans without the smell of sickness in a long time, so he had come over to check them out, leaving his guard post.
To Macy’s astonishment, the dog simply sat there, head cocked to one side, regarding them as if they were an oddity. Then, he stood slowly and padded over to them, sniffing them, but without seeming to threaten in any way. Still, Macy remembered the weapon in her right hand and thrust her ruler out at the dog. He sat again on his haunches, panting and tilting his head.
“Get back!” Macy yelled.
Looking confused, the dog lowered his head down to the pavement, as if to show he meant no harm. Then he huffed and lay still, though he never took his gaze from them.
“Stay!” Macy yelled. She’d heard other people order their dogs to do that and, to her surprise, the dog stayed. She pushed herself up and off her sister as she stood. Her ruler shook with the adrenaline rush.
The dog rolled over to his side.
Totally bewildered by this reaction, Macy reached behind her to help Marcy up to her feet.
“I think it’s okay, Marcy,” she said, “He’s not trying to eat us.”
“Don’t trust him, Macy. He could just be playing and then turn on us,” Marcy warned.
As if she just remembered her ice scraper, she looked around where they’d fallen to find it. Seeing it several feet away, she watched the dog cautiously while she reached for it. He did not move a muscle, only watched her movements with his eyes.
Macy, seeing this, decided to take a chance and reached over with her left hand to let him smell her. Her dad taught her to do it this way when approaching animals she didn’t know.
“Don’t do it, Mace,” said Marcy.
The German shepherd merely studied her hand. He sniffed her, and then licked her. Macy began to pet his head and found that he had a black collar around his neck with a sheriff’s badge hanging down to his chest.
“Look, he’s a police dog,” she said, holding up the badge for Marcy to see, then continued to pet the dog.
“Maybe that’s why he has not turned mean,” Marcy answered.
Macy noticed he had bite marks on his haunches, and as she ran her hand over chest, his ribs stood out. “No wonder he’s panting a lot, he’s thirsty. Let’s see if we can find him some water.”
“Come on, Sheriff, do you have water in the car?” she asked him as she got up. He rose from the pavement, trotted over to the open door of the car, and whined a little before the dead officer.
“Oh, sorry, Sheriff, is he your owner?” Macy asked.
The dog just sat down on his haunches. “He wants us to help him,” Marcy said.
“Oh, so sorry, Sheriff, he’s gone. We can’t help him now,” said Macy. She looked into the backseat window and noticed a gray blanket on the seat. Slowly reaching in, she pulled it out, unfolded it and showed Sheriff as she draped the blanket over the decomposing body of his former owner. Then Sheriff lay down on the pavement in front of the doorway and rested his head on his paws again. Macy stroked his fur; she knew his sadness and felt sorry for him.
Turning to Marcy, she said, “I think we should try to see if that car is available instead. If not, we’ll have to move this guy, and I don’t think Sheriff would like that very much. What do you think?”
Macy nodded. It was stupid to take the chance of aggravating the dog. They walked over to the other car across the road. There were no occupants, alive or otherwise, and the keys were on the passenger seat. Macy offered the keys to Marcy, who said, “Your turn. You’ll find out it’s not so easy.”
By this time the sun was going down. “It’s going to be dark soon,” Marcy said, “so we really need to hurry up.”
They opened the doors and the trunk to see if there was any water. Luckily, in the trunk they discovered a half carton of bottled water. Macy took two bottles out and walked over to the dog, opening one of them and offered Sheriff water in the palm of her hand. It tickled her terribly as his rough tongue slurped the water down easily. She repeated this process many times, pouring water into her hand, until Sheriff had drank the contents of both bottles.
Macy walked back to the opened car to close it up, but Sheriff jumped into the backseat, surprising both of them. “Um, he wants to go with us?” Marcy asked.
“Well, it’s up to him I guess. I’m not going to tell a police dog what he can and cannot do, are you?”
Shutting the trunk and doors and se
eing no protest from Sheriff, Macy started the ignition. Having had the benefit of watching her twin, she smoothly guided the car into reverse. She then applied the brakes carefully and stopped to adjust the seat to the closest position possible so that she would not compromise her vision. She began again and swung the car around, heading toward Issaquah. Now that the road was wide open, they should be there in no time.
8
The Madman
Horacio Campos had just finished pounding the last sign into the persistently damp earth surrounding his domain. It read no trespassing in big letters above violators will be shot, followed by see mayor campos for supplies.
Now that he’d posted it, everyone would know he owned this town, complete with all the homes and buildings, including their contents. No excuses would be accepted from any trespassers who ignored the rules and failed to pay the toll he established. “No more free rides, like those two bozos who thought they could just walk right through here without paying a fee,” he grumbled aloud. There’d been rules even before he’d posted the signs. There must always be rules.
Just because most folks were dead didn’t mean the few that lived could run off with everything else. After all, he kept the wild animals out—including the wild dog packs. He also kept the electricity on and the water running. If they paid, he’d even sell them gasoline. He had homes ready, complete with cars for those few he thought would be good citizens. They just had to pay in either work or trade. If they wanted supplies or a way through his town, they needed to prove they could pay.
Campos, having grown up here, where his father was the town’s electrician, knew that people often took advantage if you let them. He didn’t let them. Before Daddy’s time, Granddaddy owned this land, including a gas station where he worked.
The government stole it from their family after Granddaddy refused their first offer. Back in the 1970s they claimed the tract of land, which they held was required for “urban renewal” or some such nonsense. What really happened—after they offered only half of the land value and Granddaddy refused—was that they stole it through eminent domain. That caused Granddaddy to get so upset, after spending his entire life farming here, that he up and died of a heart attack from the stress of it all. That had left Daddy fatherless at the age of fifteen.
With bitter resentment, Daddy had told of holding Granddaddy, dying in his arms, and watching Grandmama cry her eyes out. But not for long; soon after, she went whoring around, leaving her son, Campos’s father, alone to fend for himself. Campos remembered Daddy swearing that he’d get the land back someday.
Daddy had gone into the navy. He learned to become an electrician and then came back to his childhood home. He resented providing service for those men who had once worked for his own daddy on the dairy farm. So when this virus struck and everyone began dying off, including his own father, Campos decided the time had come for payback. This land belonged to his family once again, and he wasn’t going to let anyone take it away. If only he’d survived the virus to see what his son had done for him, Daddy would be so proud of him. He wouldn’t get mad at him anymore.
Night and day Campos cleaned the place up. It took several days to round up all the dead bodies and burn them. He also killed family pets to keep them from becoming feral like the rest; he burned them right along with their owners. Since he owned this place now, he wanted it to look nice. He wanted it to look like it was back in the old days, just as his daddy remembered it.
From sunup to sundown he worked to put things back in order. He’d even gone through all the homes and stripped the beds, washing sheets and blankets, vacuuming mattresses and flipping them before making them up again. In the same manner, he went from room to room tossing belongings, cleaning and renewing each home so they could accommodate new citizens once he approved of them.
His daddy hadn’t been one for charity, so Campos wasn’t either—especially not for those last two who’d roamed into town. He offered them work, but he wouldn’t put up with lazy asses. He knew his daddy would not approve of them.
One thing was troubling Campos since the virus had struck and the groceries had begun to run out: so too had his medicine. He broke into the pharmacy lockup, but couldn’t find any Trilafon—the name on his bottle. The good thing about not having the meds meant that his face didn’t twitch so much. So maybe he didn’t need them after all.
But when things were real quiet and he wasn’t so busy, he could hear the voices of those coming for him again. That’s why he kept really busy all the time, from morning to night; mowing the lawns, cleaning the houses, power-washing dried blood off the sidewalks: the endless work meant he could keep the voices away.
His daddy would be real mad that he wasn’t taking his medicine, but if he could see how nice the town was now he might not mind. Just in case Daddy was keeping an eye on him from the beyond, Campos stayed busy as hell. He really hoped Daddy wasn’t one of the voices; that thought scared the hell out of him, more than anything else. “Please, no,” he whimpered, because even the very idea made him shake. I’ll have to search some more to find them pills, he thought. He’d checked all the houses already because surely someone else took the same drugs.
He’d have to check out the apartment building across the way. He hadn’t made his way over there yet, and contemplated burning the whole thing down to the ground because of what had happened there once.
One day, he’d found a live one there. He heard her screaming as she ran from a feral dog. He’d run over there and shot the damn thing, and then she invited him into her apartment to thank him. He thought at first that she would make a nice citizen, but as he got to know her he soon realized she wouldn’t. Daddy would call her sort the whoring kind, just like his own mama. She wore those short skirts and tank tops, not nice lady dresses like Mrs. Walker who had lived next door. Too bad she passed away.
He tried to tell the woman in the apartment that she could not stay for free, but she called him names—and no one could do that anymore. He told her she had to leave at once, but that only made her turn ugly. Then she called him a psycho and a crazy-ass bastard. After that, he remembered grabbing her by the arm, intent on walking her out of there like a gentleman, but she started screaming and hitting him on the chest. Then she took him by surprise and grabbed his manhood through his denim jeans, squeezing, instantly hardening him. He pushed her against the wall, but then he remembered Daddy said never to let anyone touch him there. So he grabbed her around the throat. And then he blacked out a little.
The next thing he knew, she sat leaning against the blood-splattered wall with her head off, neatly hacked from her neck. Then he found his bloody hatchet in his own left hand with her blood dripping from his clasped knuckles, staining the white carpet below.
He cried then, not for the girl but for himself. Now he knew for sure the voices were back. He hadn’t planned to kill her. In fact, he didn’t even remember doing it. He’d never murdered anyone before. He tossed her body in the burning Dumpster, like all the others. He went back to his own little house, still with the effects of her touch on him, to wash off the dried blood clinging to his skin. Daddy would be furious at him. He had really wanted to pull her to him, but Daddy’s voice grew stronger and he knew he watched him then. It scared him still.
Today Campos would work on pulling all the spoiled produce, meat, and dairy products out of the little grocery store down the street. He wished he’d gotten to it earlier, knowing by now how rank it had gotten in there. The maggots were gaining ground, and he hated maggots. That’s why he always made quick work of burning bodies. Burying them all would be impossible, so burning became his method of choice to stunt the maggot infiltration.
“Whew!” he said, and began to gag involuntarily after he’d open the door; he pulled his bandanna up over his nose and mouth to help block the stench. Having donned his work gloves, he grabbed a cart from the line and pushed it past the magazine racks to start with the produce. He would work his way around to the meat de
partment in the back, and then to the dairy aisle.
He’d already taken the time to stoke the fire in the city’s Dumpster that he’d made into a portable incinerator by attaching a hitch and tow line to his father’s small backhoe. Day after day he towed it slowly to where he needed to work; this way he didn’t have to go far to dump the things he didn’t want to keep.
There was one loudmouth guy who’d called him Campos a nut job; he threw him in the Dumpster still alive after he shot him in the stomach. The screams lasted for longer than Campos had thought they would, but it served the vagrant right to try to pull one over on Campos. “Free gas is not possible here,” he’d told him.
He had a difficult time touching anything with his bare hands, but with long work gloves on he fearlessly plunged his hands deep into the slimy maggot-covered territory. After he had dropped the bundles of rotting produce into the cart, he strolled out the door and onto the asphalt parking lot holding the blazing fire. From there he tossed the bundles into the fire, letting sparks fly upward toward the darkening sky; it was a sight that brought him pleasure. Then he went back into the little market for another load.
The store, being so low on supplies since the pandemic hit, luckily still contained enough for him and maybe five more people through the winter. Then, come spring, he planned a large garden and would need workers to help him keep it going. There was more than enough work for more than one man to do here, and Campos hoped a few decent folks would show up soon so that he could get his plans underway.
9
The Confrontation
As he pedaled slowly, navigating through the stranded cars, Graham felt the hairs on his neck start to rise. He spoke in a hushed tone to Bang, telling him to stay quiet and to move over to Graham’s left side. Underneath the overpass, they could hear what sounded like a distant dogfight. Graham worried that Bang might become alarmed and yell out, exposing them.
