Life Among the Dead (Book 4): The End

by Daniel Cotton

  At first, Rocky was concerned with leaving signs of her movements in the snow, indications to others that survivors are occupying the home, but she realized there was no getting around it. She had to walk which results in a trail, and she had to open the gate which also leaves a visible disturbance of the wind swept heaves of snow. The first few outings in the first week of this gave her anxiety, she had to figure out a way to lock the gate. She brought home a few padlocks and chains that she now removes while glancing behind her, up and down the street. Once behind the wall she locks them in her compulsive sequence, she welcomes the paranoia figuring it only helps to keep them safe.

  The door opens as she approaches, she tells Killer B every time to wait for their secret knock but she never does. Rocky is thankful for it today, she’d hate to be left standing at the door, knocking for entry in the freezing cold. Her hands are numb as they remove the heavy duffle bag from her shoulder, so frozen it feels as if the bag’s strap is shearing the flesh off as she swings it to the foyer floor.

  Killer B closes the door, she’s chattering away but Rocky pays her no mind. Being out in the glare and now in the dim home has her temporarily blind, all she wants to do is shed her thick warm garments and have a few drinks by the fire. She leaves the bag of provisions for her friend to attend to as she strips away her layers, leaving a trail of faux fur and leather all the way to the living room.

  Chilled to the bone, Rocky lets the radiating heat from their fire thaw her. As much as she enjoys her outings, coming home is the best feeling. The second she walks through the threshold and enters the warm air, smells the earthy aroma of the fire, she feels at home. Warm and cozy, like nothing that is happening beyond the property can touch them.

  But, the second she walks through the threshold she must also listen to Killer B’s nagging. “Rocky, I told you, this is a real hardwood floor. You can’t track snow on it!” the younger woman tuts as she gathers her friend’s gear from the floor all the way to the living room where she knows Rocky is just stretching out by the fire. The pop star’s living room has a stone fireplace at its center like a ski lodge, and Rocky likes to lie as close to it as possible, on the rocks that encompass it like an old cat.

  Rocky hasn’t listened to a word that’s been said to her, she wants to relax, let the fire’s glow soothe her muscles. She knows her friend well, in a second Killer B will bring her a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and an unhealthy dose of bourbon, or as Rocky calls it an Irish Miss.

  As Killer B approaches, still telling her friend how she needs to respect Kelly’s home, Rocky just holds her hand aloft to receive her anticipated mug. The cocoa is delivered on time, but also arrives with some extra nags. “I mean, this is a nice place. We can’t just trash it like a hotel room.”

  “Aren’t you the one that broke a vase trying on Kelly Peel’s adult sized, never-gonna-grow up Heelys?” Rocky asks wryly, it’s her go to whenever her friend acts like this.

  “That was an accident,” the girl defends as usual, embarrassed by the deed that happened later the first day of their stay here. “I couldn’t resist! All you have to do is pick up after yourself.”

  “Hey, I bring home the bacon, you fry it up. That’s the way this goes,” Rocky reiterates the unspoken arrangement. “Breadwinner,” she touches her chest, “Homemaker,” she points to her friend who is already heading off to put away the groceries.

  “See any signs of life among the dead?” Killer B asks.

  “Nope,” Rocky omits, not wanting to worry Killer B, or give her any ideas of inviting folks to stay with them. “Just frozen corpses,” she further neglects to tell her about the active deceased she has faced within warm buildings. “I found a shopping center. Someone had the dumbass idea to put an open-air mall in this climate. Anyways, I got you a little something special.”

  Killer B crouches by the massive bag, she takes out its contents and arranges the items to be put away; cans of food, cans of cocoa, bottles of liquor, bottles of tonic water. “You didn’t grab regular water? We’re almost out.”

  “No room,” Rocky answers. “We’re surrounded by water, just melt some snow.”

  “Snow has bugs in it!”

  “What? Haven’t you heard the expression ‘pure as the driven snow’?”

  “A teacher once told me mites live in snow.”

  “Is this the same teacher that wanted to teach you how to—“

  “No!” Killer B cuts Rocky off before she can put into words a traumatizing incident she wishes she had never confided.

  “Boil the snow, I’ll pick up bottled water next time out.” The women aren’t sure if the sickness that has devastated life as they know it is in the water supply so they have been avoiding ingesting it as much as possible.

  “Um, Rocky, is this the ‘little something special’ you got me?” Killer B asks holding up a long, sleek personal massager, meant for extra personal massages.

  “No, that’s not for you. Bring it to momma,” Rocky says. “I got you those air fresheners and candles you mentioned wanting. But, you can borrow it if you want. Lord knows your honey pot could use a good stir.”

  “Rocky!” Killer B tosses the toy to her with a look of disgust before storming to the kitchen with the supplies.

  4

  “Everyone blames the last person to leave the bathroom,” the more open minded half of another odd couple explains. “If a team’s losing, fire the coach. If a company is tanking, fire the CEO. The man didn’t exactly walk into the best of situations when he took the throne, Notorious. Shit was left in the air, a war was going on…”

  Paul Coburn is silent. What’s being said about the nation’s current and previous administrations is true. He’s pre-programmed to badmouth all that oppose his party and had fallen into that habit with the wrong person. The previous Commander-In-Chief however, he had backed every step of the way, and on occasion vacationed with at Camp David.

  The pair was on their way out of the Midwest when the snow started to fall, not wanting to risk their transport, they hunkered down in a gas station. The food selection is not the healthiest. With the power off they now store what needs to be kept fresh outside in the snow.

  “You know what I miss?” Paul poses the question in order to change the subject. “Dinner at La Torte.”

  “Sounds fancy.”

  “The fanciest, priciest restaurant in Washington, perhaps the nation.”

  “I like ritzy places, but they never liked me. I taught myself to make anything they could offer because why spend all that money at a place that makes me feel inferior.”

  “I could go for a ceviche right about now,” Paul dreams. “Now that’s comfort food.”

  “Comfort food is from the soul, what you want is cold, robot food.”

  “Isn’t the point of comfort food to feel good on the inside? Warm? Like you are exactly where you’re supposed to be?”

  “I guess,” Abe surrenders the point. “I’ll take the challenge.”

  “What?” Paul laughs his question.

  “The Quick Fire Challenge. Make something fancy with what I have on hand.”

  “Like that show, the cooking competition?”

  “Yeah, why not,” Abe says as he rises to his feet from the spot he has been sitting for longer than he remembers. He wanders up and down the aisles to see what is on hand, gaining most of his ingredients from the small dry and canned goods section which shares shelf space with a much larger selection of automotive supplies. He knows what has been put out in the cold and tries to remember where the items have been placed before opening the back door as to quicken the experience.

  The chef cracks the plain steel door and has to shove against the accumulated snow. The sun is shining brightly off of the frosty dunes, blinding him briefly as he reaches for a few items. Though they have been rationing everything, including bottles of alcohol, he retrieves a six pack from the back room.

  To keep them warm, Abe had fashioned a rudimentary wood stove
using a metal trash can and air-conditioning ductwork to route the smoke outside. This now becomes his kitchen as he sets to work, imaging he’s up against stiff competition with the cooking show’s dramatic music playing in his head. A roll of aluminum foil becomes his improvised cookware as he prepares his meal, by the time he is able to finish he and his partner have begun their second beer.

  In fine dining, plating is everything. The way a dish is set before a customer can impact the enjoyment of the meal they are about to consume. It’s a feast for all the senses, how it looks, how it smells, the texture, and of course how it tastes. But, how it is explained can also contribute to the diner's enjoyment. “What I have made for you today is a can seared filet of Spam,” the contestant begins his introduction while wiping imaginary splatter from the paper plate.

  “Can seared?” his one and only judge asks.

  “Yeah, I seared it on a hot fuckin’ can,” he continues to explain the dish. “It is presented on a bird’s nest of uncooked Ramon…”

  “What’s this sauce?” Paul inquiries about a squiggle that decorates the plate, he can’t quite tell the color in the dim light.

  “That would be ketchup,” Abe reveals with a sophisticated tone.

  Having seen a few episodes of the show that inspired this experiment, Paul, a bit more relaxed at the opening of his third beer, responds as a judge might, “Well, it looks phenomenal. It’s almost a shame to eat it.”

  Waving his hand to allow the aromatics to reach his nose, “I’m detecting a note of acid…”

  “That would be the Sweet Tarts,” Abe admits.

  Holding his plastic Spork in the daintiest of ways, Paul prepares his first bite, ensuring he has every component. He didn’t expect this farce to yield what his taste buds receive, a heavenly flavor derived from the most mundane items. “Holy shit,” he responds through a mouthful.

  “Not a bad reaction,” Abe awards himself.

  “Not bad? This is as good as anything I’ve ever had at La Torte, better than some of it.”

  “I think it’s just been a while since you had anything cooked and not straight out of a wrapper, but thank you.”

  “You said that you think you’d go far on that show, ever try?” Paul asks, as he looks for a second helping.

  “I submitted a video, never heard back,” Abe says as he gives his roommate another filet from his makeshift cookware. “The show I really wanted to be on was yours.”

  They have finished the six pack and have plucked a bottle of liquor off the shelf behind them. Paul Coburn stiffens back into his public image, “Like I said, my people and the show’s producers screened all requests.”

  “According to your guidelines.”

  “Well…yeah.” With that the two share a bottle of whiskey in silence until the subject resumes to be discussed with looser tongues.

  “Oh my god! My favorite thing was to watch you react to your guests, you were like a thermometer,” Abe laughs.

  “A thermometer?”

  “The camera would catch you as you listened to someone. They’ll prattle on about their opinion and from below your collar it would start. Your skin would flush and rise slowly up your neck to your face. It would creep over your cheeks, and keep going. Once all that mercury was up to your forehead, you’d explode. Boom! Right in the middle of whatever they were saying, spewing rightwing, conservative brimstone.”

  Paul, inebriated by now, laughs hysterically over this, picturing himself as a cartoon character whose head explodes just as Abe described. “Was I that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Man, I was a dick!”

  “You were!” The men lose their breath laughing. When he is able to speak again, Abe asks, “If this mess was ever to get better, and they offered you your old job back, would you take it?”

  “Will they be paying in cash or canned goods?”

  The laughter resumes with fresh vigor. They are unable to hear the back door being pulled open. They fail to detect the footsteps approaching. “Well, isn’t this nice?”

  The rhetorical question surprises the pair into silence, they look up from the floor at a man. He’s bundled up making it hard to judge his size, to the pair he’s massive. They just look up at him like children caught being naughty. Between the shocked stupor and alcohol they can’t think of a thing to say for themselves.

  “What are you doing in my fucking store?” the man asks, this time expecting an answer.

  “No one was here,” Abe explains. “We needed a place to stay.”

  “You didn’t think, maybe, it belonged to someone else?” the man inquires. “I’d expect that from a nigg…”

  “Now hold on!” Paul interrupts the slur, he attempts to stand to make his point only to be hit with the full effect of his drinking. Almost falling he catches himself and rises, slower this time.

  “But, you?” the stranger glares at the white squatter.

  “Hey! We did what anyone would do!” Paul defends their actions.

  “Easy, Notorious,” Abe warns his friend. They may have been acting on survival instinct, the same instinct must come into play at this moment since the man is holding a long hunting rifle.

  “Stealing?” the man balks, griping his rifle harder. “Making froufrou, faggot food? Get out!”

  Compared to what the man could do to them, the idea of leaving sounds good to Abe. “All right, we’ll leave.”

  “Like hell! I hate people like me!” Paul challenges. “This is a new world! We claim this store like our ancestors--well, my ancestors. Now, you owe my friend an apology, he might be gay but he’s a good guy. He saved my life, and any man would be lucky to have him.” He’s uneasy on his feet, another reason they had decided to limit their alcohol consumption was to remain in a state of readiness should they need a sober mind to react. It was a good idea, one they should have adhered to.

  Abe sees Paul’s mercury rising up his neck and to his cheeks, quicker since his blood has been thinned with booze. He’s getting angry, but the shop owner has a shorter fuse, he aggressively steps up to the inebriate that challenges him and rams the butt of his gun into his stomach. Paul loses his wind but hardly feels the blow in his body’s relaxed state. He grabs the rifle and wrestles the man for it. Abe tries to remember where he left his own gun, coming up empty he recalls seeing a sawed off double barrel behind the counter and races to it.

  The shopkeeper’s bulky cold weather gear hides his equally bulky physique, he easily overpowers Paul sending him to the floor. The man quickly aims his rifle as the drunk in his store rises to his feet, not needing to aim at this close range. He fires.

  “Notorious!” Abe yells as Paul falls to the floor. The large man that shot him struggles to chamber another round, the bolt gives him difficulty and affords the other intruder the opportunity to close in and empty one of the twin barrels into the man’s face.

  “Oh my god,” Abe says next to him friend. “Notorious…”

  On his back, a bullet in his belly, Paul sobers to the notion that he will die. He can feel the life draining from him with every beat of his heart, each weaker than the last. “Abe, it’s ok.”

  “It ain’t ok,” he says sadly to the man he’s hated for years but grown to like.

  “I have a confession to make,” the dying man whispers. “I always liked black shows when I was a kid; Good Times, What’s Happening, the Jeffersons… my dad threw a fit when he found out. He made me watch the Brady’s and Silver Spoons. I wanted to watch Benson. Funny, as a kid I never knew Benson was a butler, serving a white family. I thought he was just one of the Governor’s people.

  “I cried with joy when Captain Kirk kissed Uhura…”

  “Me too,” Abe admits through tears not born of joy.

  “I wanted to be Captain Kirk at that moment.”

  “I wanted to be Uhura.”

  “My wife is my Uhura,” Paul says softly a secret he’s never revealed. “She’s an Octaroon. I think it’s that black eighth of her that I fel
l in love with first…and, I made her keep it a secret. You have to get to her! Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry. Sorry for everything… Tell her loud, she’s black and I’m proud.”

  Abe stills his friend, calming him so he can cling to life for as long as possible. “I will, I will. I might rephrase that last bit. Where is she?”

  “Visiting family in Georgia. A little town called Rubicon.”

  “I’ll find her, and keep her safe.”

  “You know what my all-time favorite show was? Soul Train,” he says the title as if it is a wondrous thing. “I wanted to be Don Cornelius for Halloween. My dad made me go as one of the founding fathers.”

  “Notorious, I was Don Cornelius for Halloween. I owe all that I am to that man,” Abe says with a sad smile, his lips quivering to see Paul slipping away before his eyes. Abe wants to keep him awake. “Come on, Notorious, keep talking. You and I are the only two mother fuckers that won’t shut up long enough to die. Which of our Founding Fathers were you?”

  “I don’t even know,” the answer comes out with an unhappy crack, sounding like a heartbroken child. “My dad did this to me, made me a hateful person. He forced me to join the Young Republicans League at my boarding school, which consisted of everyone at my boarding school. I just wanted…” Paul is gone.

  “Well, Notorious, I bid you peace, love, and soul,” Abe grieves, tenderly closing his friend’s eyes.

  For what he must do next, the shotgun is too much for the task. He clears the jam from the shopkeeper’s rifle and sets the barrel against his friend’s head. For years he’s hated the man, and often joked on the air about doing this, how it would be good for the country to silence him. Never in a million years would he ever think Paul Coburn’s passing would sadden him so much, that they would actually get along if ever they met. Pulling the trigger takes a great deal of coaxing but he finally does and has to look away. The effect of the shot, the blood sprayed over the floor, reminds him of his thermometer analogy. Paul’s mercury finally popped.