by Jason Offutt
“I could use a dip in the pool,” Jenna said, sitting next to Doug. She peeled open an Army-issued chocolate bar. “Cold or not.”
“And a shower,” Nikki said. “Maybe the water still works.” She stood and dumped her trash into the bin on top of Doug’s. “But let me change Herman’s dressing first.” She looked at Jenna. “It’s going to hurt him; I might need help holding him down.” Jenna got up to help her.
Doug looked around the empty table. Terry was gone. He walked around a once worn path lined with decorative stones, weeds now threatening to cover it. Terry stood looking at a tree.
“You gotta see this, man,” he said, pointing to half a plow blade sticking from the living tree. Doug walked around the oak, an ancient hitch protruded from the other side. “The plow in the oak,” Terry read from a sign mounted next to the tree. “During the Civil War farmer Frank Leffingwell ploughed a field when he saw Union troops marching nearby, leaned his plow against a young oak tree, and went off to join the war. He never returned. This mighty oak grew around the plow, forever a symbol of nature’s power, and ability to conquer what man has made.” Terry paused for a moment, the buzz of a few nearby flies filled the silence. Nature’s power showed everywhere, and Terry finally understood it was greater than them. “Who’s going to write down everything we did so people don’t forget?” he asked.
Doug slapped his shoulder. “I don’t know, buddy. I don’t know.”
The Super Wal-Mart at the entrance to Atlantic, Iowa, no longer offered groceries, clothes, oil changes, and flowers. Fire had left a great, black stain on the parking lot where the store used to be, a few cars still dotted the asphalt waiting for drivers who would never come. Maybe a month ago Doug would have been tempted to drive through town, honking his horn looking for survivors, but not anymore. Not after Allenville. There were bad people out there, and they needed to stay out there.
“Hey,” Jenna said as they drove by a red billboard on U.S. 71. “Atlantic is the Coca-Cola capital of Iowa. Ooh, and Coca-Cola Day’s is next week. Want to stop by the Chamber of Commerce for some fliers?”
Doug smiled. He liked this girl. Before the world went into the shitter, the most a girl like this would have said to him was, “my brakes are squeaky,” in the safe confines of his shop. But this is after-shitter; the eligible bachelor pool was cut pretty slim. He braved a look into the rear-view mirror, not bad for a guy who desperately needed a shower and shave. But, then again, she did too. Everyone did.
“Maybe next year’s vacation, dear. I’ve got my heart set on Nebraska. I hear they have corn there.”
Jenna laughed, the joy, even after what they’d been through was unmistakable. Her laugh didn’t hurt his head anymore. Yeah, he liked this girl a lot.
Four miles later they pulled into the parking lot of a Hampton Inn; only one car sat in the gravel lot. “The sign says ‘pool’,” Jenna said. “The only thing that will keep me out of that is a dead body floating in it.” Terry followed Doug as he drove behind the building, the rear of the motel, a line of trees and the motel itself sheltered the trucks from the highway. Jenna looked as they drove by the pool. No bodies.
Silence ruled the afternoon. Doug wondered if he’d ever get used to all the silence. The gray fungus didn’t just take people; it took cars, trucks, airplanes, televisions, radios, telephones, and crowds. He pulled a shotgun from the back seat of the H3.
“Terry and I will go in, make sure everything’s all right.” Terry nodded and grabbed his own shotgun from the front seat of the F-150. “We’ll signal when it’s okay to come in.”
The click of a machine gun bolt pulled everyone’s eyes to Jenna. “Bad idea,” she said. “You are not leaving Nikki and me out here alone with Herman. You …” She pointed at Terry, “and me are going in there.” She pointed at Doug. “You are going to stay out here with her and unpack.” Jenna walked toward the back entrance to the lobby and slowly opened the door. Terry followed her in.
“She didn’t give you a chance to say, ‘no,’ did she?” Nikki said to Doug, a smile teasing her lips.
No, she didn’t.
The air stank from two months of closed windows and doors, the cadaver of a cleaning lady sprawled across the lobby couch didn’t help. The fungus had killed her, too, but it was gone now, a matted black crust flaked over her bones. Jenna and Terry checked every room, doors easily swung open; the electric locks useless when the power went off. Each lock was equipped with an AA battery backup in case of a power outage, but not a two-month power outage. Every bed made, every coffee tray stocked, every pillow sported a piece of chocolate that had melted during the heat of each summer day, and hardened during the cool of each night.
“Looks like everything’s all right,” Jenna said.
Terry frowned. “Like hell it is. Cable’s out.”
Jenna laughed. That, she realized, was good. She might have to spend the rest of her life with these people. It was comforting to know she liked them.
“Anything?” Doug asked as Jenna and Terry walked toward the truck, carrying their guns less as weapons, more as luggage.
“Cable’s out,” Jenna said, and winked at Terry.
“And there’s a body in the lobby,” Terry said. “But just one. And the good news is, there’s plenty of clean towels.”
They took turns carrying enough water, food and beer into the motel to last a couple of days. Nikki and Jenna picked out two rooms on the ground floor with double beds connected by a suite door. Herman Munster came last. Terry and Doug slowly pulled the mattress to the end of the tailgate and tipped it toward the ground, and caught Herman by the shoulders as he slid. Supporting him with Herman’s arms over their shoulders, and their arms around his waist, they walked him into the motel.
“Everything okay?” Nikki asked, holding the lobby door open; Jenna already stood beside the pool, stripped down to her underwear.
“Are you kidding?” Terry said. “I feel like I’m in ‘Weekend at Bernies.’”
Herman Munster moaned as they stepped into the lobby, his lids opened to reveal unfocused eyes. His head lurched to the side, and he stared at the corpse of the cleaning lady.
“Bonita,” he whispered. “Maria Bonita.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Terry asked.
“I don’t know,” Doug said. “Let’s just get him into bed. This guy creeps me the hell out.”
They walked down the hall; 101, 102, 103. Room 104 stood open. Doug and Terry dragged Herman Munster across the darkened room, the shades still drawn, and laid him on the bed. Herman moaned.
“Sorry dude,” Terry offered, then wrapped his fingers around the plastic rings on two six-packs of beer, and looked at Doug. “Pool?”
Doug froze. Music. He heard music. From the look on Terry’s face, he heard it, too.
“Holy shit,” Doug hissed. “I thought you said this place was empty.”
Terry leaned to the window and pulled back the curtain. “Looks like Jenna found a CD player,” he said. “Didn’t find any clothes, though.” He grinned. “I think a swim would be nice.”
The sound of voices trailed away, and Darryl slowly opened his eyes. The world was still a fishbowl, but it wasn’t a blue fishbowl anymore. White shone from behind gray. Walls? Shadows? Where am I? Suddenly Maryanne loomed over him, in the same white shirt, the beautiful red flower on her chest. He squinted sore eyes, trying to focus. It wasn’t a flower after all, it was blood, a ragged hole had blown through her chest.
“Hey, baby,” she said. “I missed you.”
Weak screams crawled through the motel. Nobody heard them.
July 17: Interstate 80, Nebraska
Chapter 37
Darryl knew he was sick. He wondered how long he’d been ill. Had there been a crash? A car crash? The light hurt his eyes as he slid them open, early daylight piercing a split in the curtains. Where the hell am I? A motel? He tried to remember something, anything. A mermaid. Had he seen a mermaid? There were no real mermaids, only Disn
ey mermaids. Was it …? Maryanne’s face surrounded by blue grew in his memory. No, not a mermaid, Maryanne. Maryanne stood over him as he lay in the back of a red pickup in midday, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He remembered Maryanne smiling at him, then a red flower bloomed on her chest and she sank out of sight. She’d said something to him, but why couldn’t he hear her words? Explosions, there’d been explosions, and a boat. Boat? No, it hadn’t been a boat; something just as strange. A tank, and the tank blew the shit out of something while Maryanne talked to him. What was she saying? he wondered.
“I was trying to tell you I love you,” Maryanne said. Darryl turned his eyes to the left; Maryanne stood over his bed. Yes, he lay in a motel, but where? And why was Maryanne here? She was dead, or was she?
“No, you weren’t,” Darryl said, although he didn’t feel his mouth move. Was that just in my head? “You were going to kill me.”
Maryanne leaned over, smiling, the gaping wound in her tight, white shirt hovered near his face. “Yes, I was going to kill you, baby. You ran out on me. Nobody gets away from me. Nobody.”
“Leave me alone.”
Her smile, a joyless smile, deepened to a grimace. “I’ll always be here, baby. Every time you go to sleep, I’ll be right here. And one day, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take good care of you.”
“No,” hissed from Darryl’s dry mouth. “No.”
Something moved in the room and a woman, a dark-haired woman stepped through Maryanne, the vision of the Devil woman faded from Darryl’s view as the dark-haired woman took her place. Do I know you? Darryl wondered.
“Hey, are you awake?” she asked. Am I? Am I awake? Have I been asleep? What’s happened to me? Darryl nodded.
“Hey, guys,” the woman called through an open door. “Herman Munster’s awake.”
He didn’t like their story. The wreck lingered somewhere in the deep recesses of his memory. He could feel it, but details would be long coming, if it ever did. The infection, the truck ride, Arnold, the tank. No, he didn’t like their story at all.
“Maryanne,” he whispered. Weakness began to drag him back into sleep, but he wanted his question answered, he had to have it answered.
“Who?” one of the men asked. Somebody had called him Dave, or Doug, or Darren. He couldn’t remember. “Maryanne?”
“Devil woman,” Darryl whispered. “Blond. Was she at the red truck. Dead?”
The D man’s face grew solemn. “Did you know her?”
Darryl nodded.
“Was she important to you?”
Darryl shook his head slowly, once, twice.
“Yeah, she was at the truck. Shot through the chest.”
A smile grew across Darryl’s face. “Dead? Really dead?”
“Yes,” the D man said. “She’s dead.”
The smile stayed on Darryl’s face as exhaustion dragged him into sleep.
“What do you think?” Doug asked Nikki as they sat by the swimming pool drinking beer, Terry back at the room on Herman Munster duty. Jenna sat next to Doug in her bra and panties. Sure, it was nothing more than he’d seen at swimming pools hundreds of times, more modest in some cases, but white and clinging wet, he wondered why she bothered with any clothes at all.
“He might be okay for travel tomorrow,” Nikki said. “His leg looks a lot better. The fact that he remembered something makes me feel a lot more comfortable about his head.” She took a swig of warm beer. “He still needs a doctor, though.” She looked at Doug, squinting through the sharp sunlight. “Omaha, huh?”
Doug turned toward the pool, the once sparkling water dim, settling dust already forming dark, muddy spots on its white concrete floor. “There’s supposed to be a survival shelter there. Maybe they’ve got the power back on by now. Clean water. Restaurants. I don’t have any answers. I just know that’s where everybody from the survival shelter in Kansas City was headed.” He turned back to her. “I’m working on faith here.”
A kiss dragged Darryl awake. Maryanne stood over him again, in the same place, same clothes, same deadly chest wound, same wicked smile.
“Go away,” Darryl said (aloud? Or in my head?). “You’re dead.”
“Not dead enough, baby.” She stood straight and walked around the perimeter of the bed, running an index finger down his naked leg, across his toes, and up his injured leg. “Remember how we used to rut? Banging away like a couple of high schoolers? You want some of that?” She pulled up her shirt, her firm breasts with round, pink nipples, jiggled like a stripper’s. Blood oozed from the gunshot wound between them. “One more romp for old time’s sake? It won’t hurt much.” She’d reached the bandage and jabbed her finger into his healing wound. Pain stabbed through his body. “I just want you to do something for me first.” The words dripped from her lips like saliva as she dug her finger deeper.
“What?” his mind screamed. “What the hell do you want?”
She pulled out and the pain grew into numbness. “Kill these people.”
“Okay, okay,” his mind heaved like it vomited. “Just leave me alone.”
Darryl woke the next day with a clear head, the morning sun glared through the window, showing a painting of a sailboat on the wall behind a black-screened TV on a long writing desk. He smelled something. Coffee.
“Is anybody there?” he said weakly.
An auburn-haired woman leaned from the door that joined the rooms into a suite and smiled. She looked into the other motel room.
“Hey, Herman Munster’s awake.” She turned back toward him and smiled. “Are you hungry?”
Darryl sat with his back against two pillows and ate cold scrambled eggs out of a thick plastic pouch. It was the best tasting food he’d ever had in his life.
“Where were you from?” a man asked, his name started with D, but Darryl couldn’t remember it.
“Goodland, Kansas,” Darryl said between small bites. “I started out for Kansas City because somebody blew up Denver.”
“Blew up Denver?” the other man asked.
Darryl nodded. “I don’t know what happened. I just know the last news I heard said to stay away.” He paused and took another small bite of eggs. “I got to Kansas City and the signs told me to go to Omaha, so that’s where I was going when I guess I wrecked my car.”
Terry laughed. “Wrecked is a nice word for it. You’re damned lucky you’re alive, man.”
“Kill that one first,” Maryanne whispered into Darryl’s ear. He closed his eyes, and almost fell back to sleep. He pulled his eyes open.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
The big man stood and put his arm around Nikki’s shoulders. She looked nice, Darryl thought. He didn’t want to kill her.
“Do it, you fuck,” Maryanne hissed.
“You need to thank her,” the big man said. “She took care of you.” He paused. Was the big man tearing up? “And Arnold. He’s the one who died getting your antibiotics.”
Good God. I’m not killing anyone, Maryanne. Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. “You will, baby,” she whispered in his ringing ears. “You will.”
Darryl looked up at the four faces staring at him from around the motel bed. “Where are you guys headed?”
“We got the same message in Kansas City,” the D man said. “We’re headed toward Omaha.”
Darryl sat his empty egg package on the vertical-striped, earth-tone comforter that covered the bed. Maryanne with her gaping chest wound stood next to the big man, holding a mock noose around her neck, coughing. Darryl looked around; no one saw her. No one at all.
“Can we go now?”
More abandoned cars dotted Interstate 80 than they’d seen so far. Doug drove the H3, Jenna next to him. Nikki asked to drive the pickup, and Terry said okay; he’d have more time to pick out all the Metallica he wanted to play on their way to Omaha.
“There’s plenty of room up here, Herman Munster,” Terry said to Darryl before they pulled away from the motel.
/> Darryl shook his head. “No, but thanks,” he said. “I need to sleep.” Goddamned Maryanne. Bitch is dead. These are good people, people who’ve lived through everything. Darryl didn’t want to hurt them. He sat in the bed of the pickup on the soiled mattress, soiled he knew because of him, and watched as the greens and golds of Iowa sped by. He didn’t correct the big man on his name. Herman Munster was good enough. He felt like a fictional character anyway. Darryl pulled a Budweiser off a six-pack and cracked it open. He wasn’t healthy enough for beer, he knew. He just didn’t give a damn. But one should do what he wanted.
“You are such a pussy.” Darryl turned to find Maryanne sitting next to him on the mattress. She grabbed the beer from his hand and took a drink. Darryl craned his neck to look into the cab, his head reflected in the rear-view mirror. Maryanne wasn’t there. He looked back at her flawless face. “The guns are up there,” she said. “How can you kill anybody if you’re sitting back here?”
Darryl grabbed another beer and opened it. Maryanne wasn’t going to give his back, even though she was dead. “Why do you want me to kill them?”
Maryanne chugged the Budweiser and tossed the can onto the highway. Darryl wanted to hear it clink, to have something physical in this insanity, but could only watch as the can bounced twice and faded quickly into the distance.
“Baby, I want everybody dead,” Maryanne said. “Now, what are you going to do about it?”
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
“They saved my life,” Darryl said. “I’m not going to kill anyone. Now why don’t you just fuck off?”
Maryanne laughed, the high cackle pierced his soul. “Don’t you get it?” she said. “This world is gone, dead. And some people are just too fucking stupid to play along. That’s where you come in, baby. You are my tool. You are going to do what this hole in my chest wouldn’t let me do. You’re going to kill everybody else, just like God intended.”
