by Jason Offutt
“I’m coming,” he screamed this time. He lurched out of bed and grabbed the doorframe to his bedroom to keep himself from doing what the spinning room wanted him to do, which was vomit and fall to the hardwood floor. The pounding got louder, but Lazarus didn’t know if that was outside his house, or inside his head.
It was 2 p.m. on the Sunday afternoon when the people of Mayday, Kentucky, gathered on the front lawn of the man who was just recently Tim Hardy, a plastic factory worker who rose from the dead and stood to watch him open the white front door to his house. Lazarus stood before the town in a pair of bright blue boxer shorts and white Haynes shin socks and talked with the townsfolk about brotherhood.
***
The Motorola walkie-talkie clipped to Lazarus’ black leather belt crackled to life as he stepped onto a square patch of concrete where the high school boys used to lift weights outside the locker room door of the Terrance County High School gymnasium. Lazarus unclipped the radio and held it to his face. “What do you have for me on this fine morning?” he said.
Static crackled and Walter Seidel’s voice came through strong. “This is Walter,” the voice said. “I was just about ready to turn the Gate over to Ken Gundy, but I heard a motor out there. Sounds like it’s getting closer.”
Yes. “I know you’ve had a long night, but don’t pack it in yet. Put together a welcoming committee and invite our new friends to join us. Have Lois Eller get the old Stinson house ready for visitors.” He released the push-to-talk button. Gundy? No, not Gundy. Ken Gundy was about as personable as a member of the Schutzstaffel. He hit the button again. “And keep Gundy the heck away from them. They need to want to stay. Gundy will scare them away before you can shut the door behind them.”
The walkie-talkie hissed. Walter’s voice came back on. “He’s right here.”
Lazarus sighed. The pressures of leading shouldn’t involve people’s feelings. Gundy was efficient and cruel when he needed to be. Lazarus liked that about him. Gundy was a good member of the community, but he was dangerous and people immediately knew it. If he greeted a newcomer at the front Gate, these people the town needed would scream away from Mayday faster than Chuck Yeager. Lazarus’ thumb depressed the button. “Ken,” he began, his voice strong. He knew he had to sound strong with Gundy, or Gundy might snap someday; and when he snapped, Lazarus wanted to be able to point him in the right direction. A shiver ran through him. Something about the man’s eyes scared Lazarus, scared him to death. He felt them boring into his head from blocks away. “You’re one of my chiefs. You know that, right?”
Static greeted him.
He pressed the button again. “I want you to fall back and watch these people.” Crazy man’s probably slinging his butterfly knife like a ninja. “I trust you, Ken. You’re the head of my new surveillance team. I want you to go all James Bond on anyone who steps foot in Mayday.” Lazarus swallowed, wishing like heck he’d grabbed a plastic bottle of water out of the still running refrigerator in his kitchen. Generators were wonderful things. “You’re my eyes and ears.”
More static. Then someone pressed the button on the other walkie-talkie. “Roger,” Ken said.
Lazarus dropped his hand that held the walkie-talkie to his side and looked up at Jeremy. “The end of the world was easy, my friend,” he said. “Dealing with people is hard.”
“He’s off,” Walter said, his voice wavering in the static. “Going toward the Stinson house, flipping around that damned knife of his. What now?”
What now? Always questions. Expecting answers. Poop. “The welcoming committee. Get Brenda and Kyle and Kelly. I want these people to love us.” Lazarus took a deep breath. “We’re friendly people, Walter. Sell it.”
***
The end of the world came fast; most people didn’t know it was lurking just beyond their periphery, creeping upon them in the full light of day. One day the newscasters preached doom and gloom, but what was different about that? Instead of snowmageddon, or the Red Chinese threat, it was a pill. A little pill that caused people to drop to the floor dead, then get back up and walk around until they got where the little pill wanted them to go, then they had permission to die the whole way. The next day the newscasters were gone, the television just static, the newscasters apparently victims of the little pill. As were the police, the fire department, the cashiers at the FoodFair grocery store. Businesses were empty, the people just gone. Well, not everyone was gone. Lazarus walked by Dan Miller who worked the cup machine at the plastic plant. Hmm. He hadn’t seen Dan for a couple of days: he called in sick with the flu. His coworker lay on the sidewalk outside the Aztec Movie Theater and Pub, a one-screen movie house that had gone out of business years ago in this small town. Now it was a bar, old “Star Trek” movies rolling across the screen as people got drunk and shot pool. A stalk about two feet long lay flat across his chest, the bulb on the end of the stalk had burst from the inside, a yellow mark stained the sidewalk in an arc. Lazarus walked into the street to avoid the yellow spot.
The front entrance was open to Ferguson Plastics on the outskirts of Mayday. Lazarus crossed the railroad tracks that ran beside the building and up to the front doors. “Hello,” he called into the large, corrugated tin building, his voice echoed amongst the quiet machinery. “Anyone here?” He paused and listened; someone was in the building, or something. A squeak, like someone running their hand across an overfilled party balloon came from inside the factory. Lazarus “None of that Lazarus shit in here, Mister. Your name’s Tim,” stepped through the double doors propped open with bricks and into the factory. He paused and grabbed one of the bricks; it felt like power in his hand. The gray metal door swung softly shut, the other stayed open. “I said, is anyone here.” Tim took a tentative step onto the factory floor, morning light streaming in through the windows high on the tin walls. Then he found Mr. Ferguson.
The old man lay on his back next to a blow molding machine, a fine gray fungus covered his face and clothes, a stalk like the one that lay across Dan Miller’s chest, stood tall. Tim’s feet were rooted to the concrete floor as the stalk sprouted, it sprouted, from between the buttons of Mr. Ferguson’s white Oxford shirt, a bulb on the end swelled to the size of a softball as Tim watched. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. The bulb twisted toward him; the squeaking grew louder. Tim turned and ran out of the factory and became Lazarus again.
***
Lazarus clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt and stepped off the concrete pad. His stomach had growled and the Whistlestop wasn’t getting any closer with him standing at the back of the high school. Jeremy didn’t follow Lazarus. Lazarus stopped and spun on his boot heels in the gravel. “What’s the matter, son?” Lazarus asked. He liked the boy. He knew some of the townsfolk did not, but that didn’t matter; what Lazarus says, goes. So, Jeremy stays. Jeremy just stood there, staring at him, his lips twitching to reveal a line of straight teeth. “Are you hungry?” Jeremy didn’t move. “Okay, okay. I know, it’s time for breakfast.” Lazarus beckoned the boy with a wave of his hand and Jeremy took a step toward him. “That’s better, my boy.” Lazarus started to walk again; he didn’t turn to look this time. He knew Jeremy was behind him.
Lazarus walked around to the front of the high school building, passing the clear windows of classrooms that now held food, medical supplies and weapons the hunters had rescued from local stores and surrounding farms. For the town to survive, they needed food and they needed guns. From the moment he found Mr. Ferguson lying dead in the plastic plant, Lazarus knew he had to protect the people who remained in Mayday and that was just what he was going to do.
A six-foot-high wooden fence formed a circle on the front lawn of the school grounds, metal bleachers pulled from the football field sidelines sat around the fence. “We’re here, son.” Lazarus reached for the latch on the one gate in or out of the Corral, then turned. Jeremy stood at the edge of the ring of bleachers, frozen. Lazarus pulled open the door and stepped through.
“Oh, my God.” A woman in
a blood-stained shirt sat on the grass floor of the Corral, her arms behind her lashed to a pole, her eyes bugged from a swollen face as she watched Lazarus approach her. “Let me go. Let me go.” The words came out in a whisper; tears ran down her face. “Why are you doing this? Why am I in here?”
Lazarus squatted before her and took in her face. It was probably pretty at one time, but the tenderizing process had left it blue and puffy. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice calm, almost friendly. “I just can’t.”
The woman’s head slumped to her chest. “Why?”
Lazarus smiled. “We all have a reason we’re here. Some of us are members of this town. We’re survivors. When we help each other, we keep surviving. Others are like you. That’s important. Oh, yes, that’s so important. You are what gives people like my friend Jeremy the strength it takes to reclaim this world of ours.” He paused and sighed. This woman did look bad. Yes, very, very bad. “Not even I can change what you are.”
She raised her head slowly, staring at Lazarus with pale blue eyes stained with blood. “But you can’t do this. I’m a church secretary, for God’s sake. I have a husband.” Tears began to flow again. “I have a husband.”
“Yes, I know,” Lazarus said. “He’s like Jeremy now. You should be so proud of him.” He stood and turned and walked from the corral. Jeremy remained where he stood, shifting weight from foot to foot. “Well, go on. She’s not going to get any better.”
The woman screamed as Jeremy staggered through the gate, his milky white eyes like a blind man’s. Jeremy growled and rushed toward the woman. Her screams split the morning as Jeremy fed on her flesh.
Lazarus turned and started toward the Whistlestop for his own breakfast. He sure loved that boy, but he hated to watch him eat.
July 29: The Missouri River Bridge between Omaha, Nebraska and Council Bluffs, Iowa
Chapter 12
The Army woman would have to go first. Donnie knew that. She was dangerous and the main threat to keep him from taking Vanessa Hagen away from these awful people, these Bad People. Donnie stood by Daddy’s red Silverado – funny name for a red truck. Silver-Ah-Doh – and stared across the river at a park, a yellow Union Pacific diesel engine and a gray steam engine sat atop a bluff, a sign underneath read “Kenefick Park. Welcome to Omaha.” Yes, the Army woman first. Donnie smiled. He used to melt Army men on top of the space heater in the bathroom, watching their little legs slowly bend atop the flat green bases and eventually fall. The bazooka man was his first. He watched it until it was a disfigured lump. That made Daddy mad and Daddy whipped him for “making a good goddamned space heater look like shit.” But he did it again, this time to the officer with the pistol. Donnie pictured the woman named Andi melting away before him, her skin bubbling and falling away to reveal a six-foot-tall bazooka man underneath. Then that melted onto the highway into a pile of green sludge. Donnie cupped a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t let them see him smile. Oh, no. They’d have questions.
Donnie was sure he couldn’t melt the Army woman who said her name was Andi, but he could push her. Andi stood holding a beer and leaning against the Jersey barrier; the concrete slab the only thing keeping her from falling fifty feet into the river. Donnie saw himself walking slowly up to the group of Bad people talking about the future, his future. What should we do? Where should we go? Well, they could all go to hell for all Donnie cared. He was going home. Donnie would stand with them for a few minutes listening like he gave a poop about what they were saying, then push Andi over the barrier. A snort escaped his nose. Be careful, Donnie. Don’t let them remember you’re here. It will be much easier to make them go away if they don’t remember you’re here, his inner voice said, but his inner voice sounded like Mother. He didn’t much like to hear his inner voice, even when it was right. Andi was already off balance. All it would take was a good push in the chest to send her plummeting into the swirling, dirty waters below. And if Donnie knew how to do anything well, it was push wicked people.
But then what would I do?
The knife. He’d have to have the knife he took from Mother’s kitchen; he’d tuck it in the back of the Army pants he wore. They all had guns, but he could be quicker with the knife. He’d take out the big man next, stab him in the throat, then knock the black-haired girl to the pavement with a rock. Donnie looked around. Nebraska kept its bridges clean; there were no rocks, or chunks of concrete anywhere. What, Donnie? Think, think, think. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Daddy kept a toolbox behind the seat. There’d be something heavy in there, if not a hammer, a big wrench. Yes, that would do it. The girl might not even get up again if he hit her just right with a big chrome Craftsman wrench. That just left the man with one good leg, Doug. Everybody thought Doug was so smart, but he wasn’t. Donnie was smarter. Mother always said he was the smartest boy she knew, that must mean he was smarter than Doug, too.
A piece of driftwood, a water-swollen log, moved quickly with the rushing current. Donnie’s mind saw Andi thrashing for help in the filthy, brown water, the log coming quickly behind her, then smashing her, smashing her in the head. The grin that pulled at Donnie’s face almost hurt. Doug. What to do with Doug? Nothing. Donnie wasn’t too worried about a man with a broken foot. Donnie’d just grab Vanessa Hagen who he knew wasn’t really Vanessa Hagen, put her in Daddy’s truck and go home. He’d even drive over that Doug if the gimpy man limped into the way to stop them. Babump. His grin faded. He was still five hours away from Mother and oh how hungry she would be when he got home. There would hardly be any time to play with Vanessa Hagen before Mother demanded dinner. He’d have to play with Vanessa Hagen before he got back home. That’s just what he’d have to do. Find a motel on the highway somewhere, or a house, or right in the front seat of Daddy’s pickup. Right in the front s–
“Hey, kid.” The words sounded distant and under water. “Hey, kid.” Kid? Donnie turned toward the Bad People; the gimpy man was calling to him. Kid? “What’s your name?”
My name? My name? “Uh, Donnie,” weakly squeaked from his mouth. “My name’s Donnie.”
“Well, don’t you hear that, Donnie?”
Hear? Hear what? He shook his head.
“It’s a train.”
Train? Donnie listened to the wind over the water. A pink spoonbill someone had released from the zoo flew by. Then he heard it, the rhythmic thunder of a diesel locomotive. Railroad tracks went through Julesburg, going right by the Ford Sedgwick Museum. When trains, mostly carrying grain on the Union Pacific line, roared through town, everyone heard it. This train sounded far off, like a train coming into town, but it never got louder. They all got louder coming into town. This one must be going away.
“Where there’s trains, there’s people,” Doug said. “Let’s go find them. I think Terry should ride with Andi.”
“Shotgun,” Terry shouted.
Nikki rested a soft hand on his forearm. “You are such a dork.” She turned toward Andi. “Do you even want to come with us?”
Andi nodded. “There’s safety in numbers. All I want to do is be safe.”
“Then I’m riding with you, too,” Nikki said.
Terry leaned over and kissed her. “Cool, but you must recognize my legal claim to shotgun.”
Doug looked at Donnie; the stare sent a shiver through him. “We’ve got room, Donnie. Do you want to ride with us?”
No. No, no, no, no, no. My knife. The Craftsman. I can’t get rid of these Bad People without Mother’s knife and Daddy’s Craftsman. They’re trying to ruin everything. Everything. “No, sir,” Donnie said. “This is my dad’s truck.”
Doug nodded like he understood, but he didn’t understand jack diddly doody. “Then follow us, but keep up. We’re going to be in a hurry.” The gimpy man got into the driver’s seat of the Toyota, Vanessa Hagen sat beside him. The black-haired girl – I’m still going to beat her brains in – stood by the car walking Terry to the Army woman’s Subaru where she gave him a kiss before sliding into the back seat. Gross.
Do
nnie crawled into Daddy’s truck and shut the door. His fingers found the handle of Mother’s kitchen knife and squeezed it tightly as he pulled the Silverado behind the cars and followed them closely.
***
“There’s something wrong with Donnie,” Andi said. She pointed toward the glove box. Terry opened it and found packages of beef jerky. “You know how I found him?”
Terry opened a packet of teriyaki flavored dried meat and handed it to Andi, then opened a black pepper jerky packet, pulled out a piece and handed it back to Nikki. “In a psycho ward?”
Andi didn’t laugh. “That’d be funny if it wasn’t accurate.” She lay the packet of beef jerky on her right leg and turned on the wipers, white streaks of crow shit and wiper fluid smeared across the glass until it was clean enough. “I was parked out on the highway, scared. I was scared. I’d just seen the massacre at the zoo and, yeah, I was so scared.” She pulled a bite of jerky off the stick and chewed slowly. “I sat there and saw your car come down the highway, then pull off onto a street. This guy was following you.”
Following us? A shiver crossed Terry’s shoulders. “No shit.”
Andi nodded. “At a safe distance. He could see you, but unless you were looking, you couldn’t see him.” She took another bite. “Mr. Peeky, that’s what I called him, turned on the same street you did and I followed him. He was sitting in his truck spying on that red-haired girl–”
“Jenna,” Nikki said.
“Jenna, through a pair of binoculars. He started sneaking up toward her so I got out of the car to see what he was up to. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t been there.”
