Angela laughed. “I’m going to check the computer,” she said, moving to the beaten-up wooden stand. Above the computer, attached to a log beam via push-pin was a note in Sue’s artsy handwriting: Internet down, sorry! Angela reached behind the computer and flipped the switch anyway. Nothing.
“No power, no computer,” Bishop said from behind.
“I’m going to check upstairs.”
“Let me go first,” Bishop said, wiping his hands on his pants.
They entered a saloon style door on the far wall in-between the coolers, and headed to the back of the shop, through the kitchen to a set of wooden stairs. Bishop moved up the steps in a way that allowed him to peer into the second story with only the top of his head exposed. The second floor was dim, but he could ascertain certain details. Pieces of furniture were strewn about, and a wheeled file organizer lay upturned, the papers sweeping down like lava from a volcanic cone. A splotch of blood defaced a plaid couch, and a cheap color TV with a cracked screen sat on an antique stand in the corner. Bishop could see his reflection in the TV screen as well as the afternoon light shining down the hallway that led to the rooms Sue rented out to backpackers.
Bishop noticed something else in that cracked screen, something gaseous, growing as it slunk down the hallway towards him.
Then they heard a sound they had wished they would never hear again.
The eel emitted a pressurizing noise when its multitasking pupils observed enough movement near the stairs to comprehend the presence of an intruder.
“Stay below,” Bishop whispered as he waved his hand at her.
Angela retreated down the steps and raised the .357 with a shaky arm.
The eel floated towards the stairwell, its independent pupils now all working in unison. Bishop waited, gripping the shotgun until his fingers hurt. The eel inched closer in the monochrome TV reflection. It was a big one.
The hissing grew louder.
Bishop sprinted up the stairs, shotgun pointed down the hallway.
Bam!
The once dim room flashed yellow and orange, and the thunderous blast rang Bishop’s ears. Angela ran up the stairs to his side, and they watched the eel contort and hiss in a twisted and painful display. The struggling eel followed the light at the end of the hallway and rammed itself through the glass.
“Shoot it again!” Angela shouted.
“No.”
“Why the heck not?”
“We don’t want loud noises. Remember the fliers? How they keyed in on us from the nail gun?”
“OK, good point. Good point.”
“Besides, I think it’s just running off to die,” Bishop said.
“I hope so.”
A breeze rustled the white-laced curtains at the end of the hallway. Angela and Bishop crept along the carpet, guns aimed at the window. When they neared Sue’s bedroom at the end of the hall, they smelled something putrid.
“Wait here,” Bishop said.
He peeked into Sue’s room, exposing a minimal portion of his frame so he was not a target. What he saw laying upon the bed was something he never imagined he would see, for Sue lay there face down, her arms and legs missing chunks of flesh. It appeared the eels preferred the meat of the calves and triceps. Bishop gagged, almost heaving the sugary bulging mess in his stomach. Sue’s hair was wild and torn, as if the creature had latched onto it to flip her over so it could feast on the meat it preferred.
“Don’t look in there,” he said.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Sue is gone. I’m sorry.”
Angela trembled as her eyes pooled with moisture, and soon her cheeks were dripping. She ran to the window and flung back the curtains, gazing out to the parking lot and the highway. Then she pointed her gun out the window.
“Come on fuckers! COME AND GET ME!”
Bishop pulled her away from the window and wrestled her into his arms.
“She was such a good person,” Angela said, sobbing. “What did she do to deserve this?”
Bishop held her tighter, feeling her lurching sobs upon his chest. But he did not stop scanning the building, for there were enemies all around them.
*
They searched the rustic, cedar-paneled rooms for useful items and came up with a foldable knife, a daypack, spare AAA batteries for their headlamps, and even a quarter ounce of weed. Bishop held up the baggie in the light.
“I haven’t seen that since college,” Angela said.
“Me neither.”
“So why are we keeping it?”
“It’s pain medicine. You never know when you’re going to need it.” And you never know when you don’t need it either, he thought.
Bishop remembered the bottle of Vicodin in the truck’s glove box, of how the pills sang to him as if alive. When they headed downstairs, Bishop checked their rear, making sure nothing entered the hallway window. The curtain blew gently in the breeze, but nothing came.
Angela filled the backpack with Gatorade and other items from the coolers, laughing in-between sobs. “Poor Sue. She worked so hard, and here we are pilfering her life’s work.”
“Sue would want us to take this stuff,” Bishop said.
“Where do you think Bill went?” Angela asked.
Bishop sighed. “I don’t know. I hope that wherever he is, he’s OK.” But Bishop had a feeling Bill was scattered across a patch of gooseberry back in the woods. If he was lucky, it was quick—real quick. Bill often picked wild berries for Sue’s pies. The creatures probably hit him at once, long before they crept into the shop to get Sue.
They took packets of beef jerky, plastic spoons, stove fuel, a single burner stove, bug spray, all the baked goods they could fit inside a cardboard box, and packs of gum.
“What’s the gum for?” Bishop asked.
“It’s scientifically proven that gum lifts your spirits,” Angela said.
When Bishop went outside to load their cache, Angela maneuvered behind the glass display and took a tape recorder off a wooden shelf. Sue had used it for her famous recipes.
With the truck fully loaded, Angela got inside and shut the door quietly.
“I’m going to check the garage,” Bishop said to her while standing outside the passenger side window. He walked over to the dilapidated structure, ever aware of what might pop out at him from the forest. Rays of light brimming with plankton-like motes shone between the warped slats. One of Bill’s fly rods leaned against a rickety wall. On a work bench comprised of two saw horses and a slab of wood sat an aluminum gasoline can. Bishop carried it to the truck, then extended the wonky spout and inserted it into the gas tank. The viscous glugging was louder than he liked, so he raised the angle to hurry things along. When the can finally emptied, Bishop placed it into the back seat.
The gas needle ticked above half a tank as they pulled out of their friend’s bakery and hostel.
“Goodbye, Sue,” Angela said, taking Bishop’s hand with trembling fingers.
*
Heading south on Highway 18, they approached Wilkin’s Bait and Tackle. There were no signs of the cantankerous son of a bitch owner. Bishop had his run-ins with the old man over the years, and Wilkins once even accused Bishop of not spending enough money at his shop. Bishop never understood Wilkin’s hate for tourists since they were the bulk of his business. Wilkins would even give bad information to those who “didn’t spend enough,” or send them to spots known to locals as fishless. In the taverns, these jerks would joke about the hapless tourists wandering off into the woods, sometimes with children in tow. It wasn’t all pretty scenery in Elmore. There were some ugly, ugly people.
“I hope they got him,” Bishop said.
“You don’t mean that. Take it back,” Angela said.
“I mean, come on. They took Sue, so it’s only fair they got that son of a bitch.”
“The bad ones never seem to die early,” she said.
“Or maybe the good ones just haven’t lived long enough to do bad.”
“Do we keep it running?” she asked.
“Not sure. I can’t remember if it saves more gas to keep it running or to start it again.”
“Turn it off, I think,” Angela said.
They got out, weapons in hand, and approached the wooden building with its small pitched roof and large display window. Fish smell permeated the air, like the moments after a heavy spring rain. When they opened the creaky shop door, a little silver bell jangled. Bishop froze, then cupped the bell in his hand and yanked it off the piece of yarn it was tied to.
Nothing seemed out of place. Wilkins was nothing if not neat. A row of spinning tackle and a row of fly fishing gear split the middle of the store. Several plastic basins were set against the left wall with tubes entering each one. The basins bubbled with fresh incoming water, and schools of darting minnows occupied each one. Bishop peered over a basin edge, and the minnows swarmed to the far side, tiny eyes locking onto him from behind.
“All clear,” Bishop said.
Angela walked over to the cash register and picked up the phone next to it.
“Dead,” she said. Then she turned to examine the wall behind the register. “Look at this, hon.”
She handed him a brand new Beretta 92fs pistol and a box of ammunition.
“Hell yes,” he said.
Then Angela took two expensive Rambo style knives that contained a compass in the handle and a hollow place for matches.
“You’re on fire,” Bishop said.
They loaded their winnings into the truck and got in, careful how they shut the doors.
“Wait,” Angela said. “We can’t do that.”
“Do what?” Bishop asked.
“We can’t just leave the minnows like that.”
“Oh yes we can.”
“No, we really can’t.”
“I’m not wasting my time with that.”
“Fine, wait here then.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“I am.”
“Are you insane?”
Angela turned to him with hurt eyes.
She’s seen enough death, Bishop thought. He understood that something inside her would not let those minnows die flopping about in the soon-to-be dry basins.
“We’re the better species,” she said. “We do the right thing. That’s what makes us different from the others.”
Her eyes pleaded.
Bishop’s incredulity receded, and his shoulders relaxed.
“OK, I’ll help.”
Angela cracked a smile, and they went into the asshole’s shop, grabbing aquarium nets from the damp wall and fishing out minnows of various shapes and sizes. The minnows flopped and slithered in the nets, the tiny, fleshy sides making mealy noises as they rubbed together. Bishop opened the back door and they headed to the bait pond Wilkins had tended over the years. The last batch of rescued minnows plopped into the water and streaked to shadier portions of the pond. The minnows wanted to hide, too.
“There,” she said. “I feel better now.”
In a strange way, Bishop did too. In a world that was out of control, this was something they could control. They did good.
Bishop put his arm around Angela, and they proceeded around the fishing shop rather than going back in. They were learning.
Angela tried the walkie-talkie from the truck, but no luck. Lots of static, but at least the jarring frequency sweeps were gone. Bishop hated the radio and the way Angela spoke into the ether, as if they were the last people on earth. The empty static crushed morale. He wished he could toss the radio onto the gravel lot and run it over. If it wasn’t for Colbrick…he gripped the wheel, not wanting to think about it.
Back on the highway, they passed Blanton’s Car Repair, Denson’s General Store, and Apex Crafts. All seemed deserted. Highway 18 turned into Main Street, a point where many confused tourists didn’t realize they were still on the correct route. There were a couple right turns, a couple left turns, and signs to follow—although the positioning of the signs was questionable.
Main Street wasn’t much. There was the tiny movie theater (Stanton’s) with the wheeled popcorn maker out front, a deluxe candy shop, several clothing stores, and a souvenir shop that sold all kinds of tourist crap. The owner, Bob Higgins, had once been charged with selling knives to kids under the age of sixteen. The Lynyrd Skynyrd cocaine mirrors probably weren’t a good choice either. It was your standard small town hub, except this one had views of the tremendous Apex Mountains with their unusual, mangled precipices. The scenery drew people to Elmore, but you can’t eat the scenery, and many dreams of permanent residence in this beautiful place faded like fall leaves on the aspen. The locals clung to whatever was here, often inherited. They were not all that different from the ragged trees clinging to the high, rocky slopes.
Towards the southern end of Main Street, they saw the source of the flames and smoke—Jenson’s Hardware. Bishop wondered how much propane Jenson had stored and if it had blown already. Flames tore through the flat roof and reached for the sky like orange weeds. Bishop stopped the truck and watched through the windshield. Angela coughed as smoke billowed down Main Street, skulking through the alleys like clouds between mountain peaks.
They jumped in their seats as a projectile rocketed through the store’s front window, trailing eye-searing, rippling flames. The object screamed across Main Street, knocked bricks loose on the opposite building, then exploded.
“There goes a propane tank,” Bishop said.
“Jesus, do you think we should move a bit—”
Pow!
Another tank shot through the hardware store window, dripping bright fire and smashing into an apartment window across the street. Fresh flames licked and teased the window frame from inside the apartment building.
“There goes that building,” Bishop said.
“Do you think anyone is in there?”
“I doubt it.”
“Maybe we should go look.”
“You want to enter a building that’s on fire while exploding propane tanks are launching into it?”
“We can go around back.”
A burst of flame ripped through the apartment building roof, a final answer to their foolish thoughts.
“Never mind,” Angela said.
Then they heard the barking.
From a second story window in the apartment building, a small, white head bobbed up and down, ears flopping above the windowsill, then disappearing. Bishop saw the occasional flash of teeth and a snout.
Ruff! Ruff!
“Bishop, a dog’s trapped up there!”
He stomped the gas pedal, shoved Angela’s head below the window frame and accelerated past the fiery hardware store. “Keep your head down!” he shouted. Then he made a hard left onto Trout Road and zipped into the gravel alley behind the apartments.
“Wait here and keep it running,” he said.
“Be careful,” Angela said, cupping her hand to her mouth.
Bishop opened a heavy door and entered a dimly lit, yellow-painted hall that reeked of mold and carpet cleaner. He found the stairs, smoke already creeping down each step. Bishop stretched his shirt over his mouth, and in the haze and sick stench, he followed the desperate barks to the second story. Each bark sent his heart into the pit of his stomach, making him hate the world even more. This was reality. Things fucking die, and die a lot. This dog may be just another gnat-like punctuation mark in the brutal chapter of life. Fuck you, he thought, not sure who he was even addressing the insult to.
The barking came from a door with thick coils of smoke streaming out the cracks. Bishop began to sweat from the heat, and a harsh cough forced him to drop his shirt from his mouth. He held his breath and reached for the brass door handle which was hot, but he wasn’t fazed. When he flung the door open, huge plumes of smoke billowed into the hallway, followed by attacking flames that ignited the crusty yellow ceiling.
Bishop turned and ran.
This was the end of the line. He could do no more.
He reached the stairwell and looked back. A weak dog pulled itself along the carpet from the doorway, crawling below the pouring smoke. The dog managed to get a few feet down the hallway, its eyes narrowing from asphyxiation.
“Don’t you fucking die!”
Bishop took off his shirt, wrapped it around his mouth and sprinted down the moldy, burning hallway. His arm hairs singed and his vision wavered. He saw a blur of white on the floor and reached for it blindly, feeling like his hand had been placed into an oven. His fingers grasped fur, and he yanked as hard as he could while turning away at the same time, dragging the pooch down the smoke-filled hallway.
“Gotcha,” he said.
He placed the dog over his shoulder and teetered down the stairs. When he exited the rear door, Angela sprinted towards him, her eyes wild with worry. There he stood, shirtless and sooty, a mutt slumped over his shoulder. Then Bishop collapsed. His head slammed onto gravel, and swirling stars filled his darkening mind.
*
“Bishop, wake up, wake up honey, please, please wake up!”
A hand slapped his numb face. His eyelids opened and closed.
Slap!
His eyelids rose again as he emerged from the darkness. His mouth tasted like burnt paper, and his eyes stung.
“Thank God!” Angela said.
She took Bishop in her arms and hugged him, and he coughed.
“Where’s the dog?” he asked, lips and throat sticking from dryness.
“Right here at your side,” she said, smiling through a stream of tears. “He’s right here.”
The medium-sized, sooty mutt with floppy ears and long snout barked at Bishop. The dog even wagged his tail.
“You saved it, hon!”
“Help me up,” Bishop said. “We need to get out of here before the fire grows.”
Angela reached for him and pulled, and they heard another explosion.
A propane tank screamed across the sky above them into a residential area. The dog watched, a blazing trail reflecting in his eyes.
The Invasive Page 13
