Bad Day For A Road Trip

by Jason Offutt

  Pancakes? My husband is dead and he’s talking pancakes? Bryce’s death sat in the middle of her mind and began to nestle in. “He has celiac disease. He can’t eat wheat. No gluten.”

  Lazarus nodded. “Well, that would explain the bread as well. What about the potatoes?”

  Why is he still talking about food? Potatoes? “They were mashed. He won’t eat mashed potatoes.” Dry. I need water. So much water. “Says they look like puss.”

  This time Lazarus laughed. That bastard laughed out loud. “Well, that makes me feel better,” he said. “The Ophiocordon was in the potatoes and the pancakes and the bread.”

  Ophiocordon?

  “There’s only one man who’s ever survived Ophiocordon,” Lazarus said, his voice booming now, echoing off the gymnasium walls, “and that’s me. Not enough room in this world for two Lazarus. Lazaruses? Lazari?”

  “Why did you put Ophi–?” Tabitha’s strength was fading and was almost gone.

  Lazarus leaned close, his eyes filling Tabitha’s vision. “Because I’m taking back the world from those idiots who destroyed it and I need an army.” He paused and stood straight. “Looks like you’re about ready to join your hubby. You got a little gray fuzz on your cheek.”

  Tabitha’s bowels evacuated in her once white cotton panties. That’s all she wore as she lay strapped to the gurney in the Mayday greenhouse. I shit myself. Isn’t that supposed to happen when you die? “Kyle,” came out in a hiss.

  “I’m here, Mom.”

  The words came out so softly she almost didn’t hear it. Is that Kyle? Is that really Kyle? Tabitha turned toward the sound. Kyle stood next to Ken Gundy; Ken Gundy and his Nazi face. Gundy’s arm rested on Kyle’s slim shoulder, his fingers around the back of the boy’s neck.

  “Your son, Mrs. McKenney. You see, Kyle’s just fine.” Lazarus waved his hand at Gundy. “Take him to the Corral.”

  “No,” cracked in Tabitha’s throat. “Where are you taking him? Where are you taking my son?”

  Lazarus’ smile returned. “He’s not yours anymore, Mrs. McKenney,” he said. “He’s ours.”

  Kyle tried to break free from Gundy, to run, run anywhere, but he couldn’t move. Gundy’s grip was like steel. “You see, ma’am,” Gundy said. “Zombies like their meat. Oh, surely ma’am they do. But they like it best young and tender and scared shitless. Like this.” Gundy pulled back his arm and struck Kyle in the face with his closed fist. Blood flew from the boy’s ruined nose as he skidded across the room. This time Tabitha screamed.

  ***

  What a fine day. The blue sky stretched to forever over Mayday as Lazarus made his way toward Main Street and the Whistlestop Café for breakfast. Birds sang in the still morning and his walk smelled of honeysuckle. It felt like a Disney movie, if Disney made movies where stalks of fungus ripped through people’s chests and turned millions of people into zombies. Lazarus waved at Layia Carpenter who trimmed the hedges in her front yard. Good to know people still took pride in appearances at the end of the world. He rounded the corner from First Street to Main and said “good morning” to Ted Simpson, just opening the Apple Mart. Nobody bought anything from Ted, nobody had to, because nobody used money anymore. But there was still the need for a good grocery store and Ted checked them out just like he used to, to keep track of inventory. People needed to feel something normal and grocery shopping was about as normal as you could get. A run into Louisville last week filled the shelves of the Apple Market, so, yep, everything was just like normal.

  “Good morning, Lazarus,” Ted said, his butcher’s apron stained pink with blood that just wouldn’t wash out. “It was nice to have some fresh beef.”

  “Sure was.”

  “There’s plenty of farms around here,” he said. “Plenty of cattle, plenty of chickens, plenty of hogs and I’ve got plenty of freezer space. As long as the gasoline doesn’t run out, I can keep my generator running for a long time.”

  Hogs? Why hadn’t I thought of that? “Think you could make sausage?”

  Ted nodded. “Course I can.”

  Lazarus slapped Ted’s shoulder. “I’ll send Walter and a crew out today to find some fresh meat,” Lazarus said. “Ted, my friend, this day just keeps getting better.”

  Yes, a very fine day. Lazarus thought he could have done without seeing Ken Gundy beat the shit out of the McKenney boy in front of his poor dying mother, but she didn’t live through half of it. Gundy usually waited until he had them chained in the corral before venting his frustrations on their weak, breakable bodies, but he must have been trying to prove a point. Lazarus didn’t know what the point was, or who he was trying to prove it to. That’s what happened to Lazarus when he got hungry, he lost all concentration. He just wished Gundy hadn’t called his soldiers “zombies.” He hated that word and hated what he had to do to the McKenneys, he really did. The people who chanced upon Mayday just wanted to survive like the rest of them; but they were going to leave Mayday and Lazarus couldn’t let that happen. This was his town and his world. God had kept him alive for a reason and Lazarus knew that reason was to bring the human race back from the brink of death. The McKenneys needed to be productive members of society and they were. Mom would soon sprout like Dad and create soldiers for Lazarus’ army. When Gundy got back from the Corral, Lazarus would send him to grab a couple of filthy Carlsoners to chain to the barbells at the foot of the McKenney’s gurneys.

  The bell over the door of the Whistlestop jingled when Lazarus opened it and stepped into the well-lit café. The Whistlestop, like the Apple Mart and the high school, was one of the buildings in town that needed electricity, it needed to keep being normal for the people of Mayday. Gary Thatcher, the plumber, sat sipping coffee over an empty plate, a few scraps of waffle stuck to his fork. He talked with Jim Smithy, the director of Mayday’s public works and dogcatcher. Mayday didn’t need a dogcatcher much anymore, but they needed public works. Gary and Jim were working on getting the water tower back online. The water wouldn’t be drinkable at first, but a permanent boil order would take care of that. With water in the toilets and filling bathtubs, things would really seem back to normal.

  “Morning, Lazarus.” Gwenny stood behind the counter, her powder blue uniform lightly dusted with flour. The uniform was a little low cut for a small-town gravy restaurant; this wasn’t a Hooters, but Lazarus didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. “I have a surprise for you,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “How’s the project going, gentlemen?” Lazarus asked, sinking into a booth next to their table.

  “Not bad, Tim,” Gary said. “We were having some problems with the pump, but it should be up and running by tomorrow, Sunday by the latest.”

  Tim? Tim? “That’s good work, fellas. But, Gary, I’m not Tim anymore.”

  Gary gently sat his cracked porcelain coffee cup onto the café table and looked up at Lazarus. “I’ve known you all your life and your name’s Tim. I’m glad the shit that killed everybody else and turned them into zombies didn’t kill you, but that doesn’t change the fact that your name is Tim. Tim Hardy. This Lazarus stuff is pretentious bullshit. Now, I’m calling you Tim just like your mom and dad called you. Tim.”

  Lazarus smiled at Gary. Ken Gundy would have to do something about this man, but not now. Not while the water tower was down. Even then, he needed to wait for a while, you know, just to see if the water tower worked. Then Ken Gundy could do what he wanted to him. “Whatever you like, Gary. Whatever you like.”

  Jim nodded toward Lazarus. “Where’s your friend?” he asked, his voice flat.

  Friend? “Who?”

  “The tall, lanky fellow,” Jim said. “The one with the cannibal condition.”

  Jeremy. Oh, Jeremy. Lazarus hadn’t seen Jeremy this morning, which was odd. Jeremy usually waited outside his house for their walk around town, but this morning he wasn’t there. Maybe he was still lurking around the Stinson house, sniffing for Kyle. “He had other things to do, but I’ll tell him you asked
.”

  Gary and Jim nodded and fell back into conversation. Jim rose from the table seconds later and pulled on his Kentucky Wildcats cap. “Thanks, Gwen, honey,” he said and walked out the door, the chime just as happy as when Lazarus came in. Gary left right behind Jim.

  “Any time boys,” Gwenny said, coming through the kitchen doors, a coffee mug in one hand, a plate of pancakes in the other. She kissed Lazarus lightly when she sat his breakfast on the table. No one was there to see.

  Dark blobs dotted the pancakes. “Whoa. What’s this?”

  Gwenny giggled. “Blueberries. The search party going through the farmhouses found a can of blueberries. I thought you’d like them.”

  Oh, yes. “I like them just fine, Gwenny. This means a lot to me.”

  “I tell you what else will mean a lot to you,” she said, stepping away from the booth and walking back toward the counter, shaking her hips. Although a cherry pie in the round display case looked good to Lazarus, too, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Gwenny’s backside. “Today’s Saturday.”

  Took care of business, found future sausage, made plans to kill Gary, had blueberry pancakes sitting right here, Saturday sex. Yep. This was sure going to be a fine, fine day.

  July 31: Council Bluffs, Iowa

  Chapter 14

  I’m losing them. Doug sat in a canvas camp chair, a lukewarm mug of coffee wedged between his legs, the pastel smear on the horizon slowly pushing back the stars. Goddamnit, I’m losing them. This is Carter’s Phillips 66. They needed someplace to stay and ride this thing out, someplace safe, secure. Doug knew that and he was trying to find it, but they wanted a cabin in the woods, he wanted Mayberry. Nothing good ever happened at a cabin in the woods, Doug had seen that slasher film more than once; but nothing bad ever happened in Mayberry, especially with Sheriff Andy Taylor and Deputy Barney Fife on the job. He sipped the instant coffee that tasted like he’d strained it through his sock and wondered if a cabin in the woods wouldn’t be the best choice. No, no. People. We need people. Safety in numbers. There were a lot of crazy people left out there, like Herman Munster’s Devil Woman; and she attacked them with a fucking tank. They needed to find people, good people, in a group that was too big to be worried about things like zombies, or a single tank. Doug took over watch from Jenna at 3 a.m.; she now lay in the tent next to Nikki, snoring like Fred Flintstone. Doug figured he’d have to get used to that.

  “We could always go back to the Marsten house,” Jenna had said to him, her arms wrapped around Doug’s neck, the sweet smell of her breath bathed his face. She got into the pineapple. “They left food, water, electricity, guns. There’s Terry’s video game, since his idea didn’t work. ‘Toddlers & Tiaras’ on DVR, enough room in that little town for everybody. We could stay there a long time.”

  Yes, we could. But should we? The little town of Barton, Missouri, was an out-of-the-way speck, no reason for anyone to find them there. But Herman Munster had found them, falling onto the living room window, smearing it with his blood as he slid down the glass, blood that was probably still dried to the window. Jenna was right, the place was well stocked and St. Joseph was close enough for supply runs to last them a long time. There was enough wildlife and wandering livestock to keep them fed. They could live there for the rest of their lives, or at least get directions to Tanelorn, the Marsten’s fortress of a summer house in western Nebraska. Doug had found the layout to the house on the Marsten’s computer. It was ready for the end of the world; too bad the Marstens died before they got to use it.

  “Maybe,” he said. “We can talk about it in the morning.” He kissed her deeply; the taste of pineapple filled his mouth.

  That was at 3 a.m. He was supposed to be on watch, for zombies, for any visitors. Maybe people, maybe coyotes like in western Nebraska, maybe lions. They were just across the bridge from Omaha where some asshole had released all the animals at the Henry Doorly Zoo. Anything might sneak up on them in the dark, but most of his attention was on the Silverado. Nikki, Jenna and Andi slept in the Hipsters’ tent, Terry slept under the stars on a sleeping bag from Walmart, but Donnie slept in the cab of his truck, probably with the doors locked. There was something off about that boy. Doug mistrusted Donnie with the same fervor he trusted Andi. Doug didn’t know what Donnie was, but there was something about his eyes, they looked like a cheap doll’s. Doug wondered if he shook the boy if those eyes would dance in all sorts of directions. If they did go back to Barton, Doug knew one thing; that squirrely kid wasn’t coming with them.

  Terry rolled over to his side and farted in his sleep. Doug grinned. What’s wrong with me? I’m a grown man and still think farts are funny. He started to take another sip of the instant coffee, but a rumble stopped the mug halfway to his mouth. The rumble started low, barely audible. If he would have been here a couple of months ago, with the hum of tractor-trailers on the highway and the din of Council Bluffs waking up in pre-apocalypse America, Doug wouldn’t have heard the noise until it was almost upon them; but in the dead silence of the fallen world, he heard the source of the rumble miles away.

  Train. A fucking train. “Terry,” Doug said, pushing himself out of the camp chair and onto his crutches. “Wake up.” Terry farted again. Doug limped over to the sleeping bags laid out on the grass between the Prius and the tent and poked Terry with the rubber tip of the crutch. “Get your ass up.”

  Terry rolled onto his back and looked up at Doug, his face pale in the light of the coming morning. “What’s up, boss?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

  “Everything’s okay,” Doug said. “But we’ve got company coming.” The rumble of a train in the distance was louder. No whistle. There weren’t cars to warn off the tracks anymore. “You hear that?”

  Terry nodded. “Hell, yes,” he said, then he noticed Doug’s frown. “What’s wrong, man?”

  Doug looked toward the trucks, concern covered his face. “Civilization’s out there. Somebody sent the train; somebody’s receiving the train,” he said. “There’s civilization on both ends. We’re going to find running water and movies and kids playing in parks somewhere. It’s going to happen. We just have to follow it.”

  Terry pulled three cans of Armour Chili out of a bag in the trunk of the Prius. “Breakfast?”

  ***

  Carter’s Phillips 66.

  Sweat ran down Doug’s smooth face, the T-shirt under his tan Boy Scout shirt clung to his torso like a drunken prom date. Way to go, Mike. Way to flipping get us lost. He swatted at the mosquitoes buzzing around his face when the toe of his hiking boot snagged on a tree root and he splashed into the water of a slow-moving tributary of the Cimarron River in southwestern Kansas. Doug spat out a mouthful of cold water and sand as he pushed his face out of the stream. Great. Just great. He looked at the bank; Danny, Mike and Terry stood in the knee-high grass. Terry grinned like he’d just gotten a Christmas present. Danny had his back to the stream, pissing into the trees. Mike stared at him, his face twisted into one big, gigantic, royal fucking I told you so.

  “Ready to give up, kemosabe?” Mike Smeltzer was an asshole, but of the four boys vying for Eagle Scout, Doug knew he and Mike had the best shot, which was too bad. Mike didn’t deserve it. “Or were you just early for bath night?”

  “Go to hell, Smeltzer.” Don’t lose your cool. Don’t lose your cool. Don’t lose your cool. The boys, who went off in search of someplace to swim – guess I found it – were separated from Paola, Kansas, Boy Scout Troop 100 by any one of the 521 square miles of prairie and forest in the Cimarron National Grassland. They were close enough to Colorado to piss on it and hell, Danny may have just done that. They might even be closer to Colorado than they were the rest of their Troop. The low sun bathed the late afternoon in orange light, Doug knew they needed to find help and they needed to find help now. Mike wasn’t helping.

  “Clever, Titus. Clever,” Mike Smeltzer said, his smug smile not yet shit eating like it would one day be when he sold used cars in Olathe. “It’s going
to be dark soon. We have to get back to camp.”

  Don’t lose your cool. “We don’t know where camp is, Smeltzer,” Doug said through gritted teeth – thanks to you and your “we don’t need a compass. Just come on.” “The Scoutmaster is probably freaking out about now. We saw a gas station on the highway. Given the position of the sun and Cimarron River we’re approaching, that station should be about a mile away. Maybe two. We can call for help.”

  “We don’t need help, Titus,” Mike said. “I can lead us back to camp.”

  “How you gonna do that, Mike?” Danny asked. “Terry wiped his ass on the map back there when he took a dump in the poison ivy.”

  Terry suddenly stopped grinning. “What?”

  “It’s buried behind a bush somewhere covered in Terry’s breakfast burrito from that shitty truck stop,” Danny said. “You want to go dig it up?”

  “What do you mean, poison ivy?”

  Mike rested his fists on his hips, like smug pricks do and smiled. “Of course not. I know exactly where we are and exactly where camp is. I was just waiting for Aragorn here to shit himself and give up. He’s shit himself enough. Come on. Let’s go back to camp.” Mike turned and walked into the trees. Danny followed.

  “Come on guys,” Doug said, his olive trousers soaked in creek water. He pointed to the south. “Help is that way.” He looked at Terry. “Come on, man. It’s right over there.”

  “You coming Terry?” Mike called from the trees.

  Terry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “I’m hungry, Doug. I’m going with them.” He turned and disappeared into the foliage.

  “Goddamnit,” Doug muttered and followed them.

  They were lost for two days. A helicopter circling over the expanse of prairie grass and trees spotted them standing in an open field, hungry and dirty. They were ten miles from camp. As Scoutmaster Thomas drove the van east on U.S. 56 toward home, they went by Carter’s Phillips 66 where Doug was marching his fellow Scouts to call for help. Given the topography and position of the Cimarron River as the white and red sign boasting “Unleaded $2.39” crawled by, Doug knew they couldn’t have been more than two miles from the station when they turned to follow Mike. Fuck you, Mike Smeltzer. Fuck you.