by Joseph Xand
Now the outlet malls were nothing more than acres of concrete, brick and plaster façades, and broken glass. Cars dotted the mostly-empty parking lots. Several trees rose from the lots, surrounded by small, brick barriers. Some of the trees still sported metal cords meant to stabilize them, although all of them were well-rooted.
Breezeways were littered with piles of loose paper, leaves, plastic bottles, and other refuse blown in from miles away. In the windows, collapsing placards and bulletins were sun-bleached, the deals they'd once trumpeted barely legible.
The occasional corpse lumbered through the parking lots or along the passageways, but their density was more concentrated in the areas of town where people use to live.
For the most part, these once-thriving centers of consumer activity were now completely abandoned. The last of anything useful had been scavenged a long time ago.
Turtleman arrived at the eastern-most outlet mall a little after noon. He'd left early that morning with the discount malls in mind.
In spite of living near them most of his life, he'd only been to the malls a couple of times. Once was on an economic class field trip where a scrawny, pimply college kid dressed like a football referee (the store's required uniform where the kid worked) lectured them on the American retail system.
The other time he rode his bike there so he could loiter outside the Victoria's Secret store in hopes of catching one of the hot employees trying on their wares, which he'd heard they were required to do upon request. None of them ever did, and eventually, a security guard made him leave.
Now he moved from one store to the next, breezing through broken windows and unlocked or open doors. Few stores were protected with a metal, grated barricade. At the Skechers outlet, he traded in his old, worn-out tennis shoes for a pair of shoes that resembled bowling loafers, yet had once somehow been fashionable.
Then at the Adidas outlet, he traded in the Skechers for high-top sneakers, the more sensible choice given all the walking he did.
At the Victoria's Secret store he ran his hands over the silken negligees and see-through thong panties, then masturbated onto a pile of lingerie to a poster of a beautiful, curvy woman in a nightie.
The voice harassed him the whole time.
He skipped the Disney Store and the Leatherworks when he noticed zombies roaming around inside. He passed on the Armani Outlet and Kids' Depot as well, certain that neither offered anything of value, not in this world, anyway.
He ate lunch at the Kitchen Store, using some new-style can opener to open his baked beans and can of tamales. It took him a while to figure out how to use it, but when he did, he discovered the top would fit back on the can like a lid, which could make it easier to preserve food.
Not that you've ever left a can of food uneaten, fat ass.
Ignoring the cheap shot, Turtleman stuffed the new can opener, as well as other kitchen utensils he thought might come in useful, into his pack.
When he came to the end of the first breezeway, he opted to turn down the roadway leading out of the outlet mall rather than crossing it to the next collection of stores.
Behind the stores and across the main street another outlet mall stretched into the distance. Then he saw something he hadn't expected: a Ferris wheel, the top of which rose above the roofs of the stores.
He crossed the street cautiously, his new shoes already rubbing blisters on his ankles, and turned the corner into the new outlet mall. In one far corner of the massive lot, the traveling Tri-County Fair stood bleak and motionless. It was cordoned off with portable iron gates.
Turtleman took the shortest route, a straight shot across the parking lot and dangerously out in the open. He scanned for movement as he went and, although he saw a corpse slowly bumbling along here and there, none of them saw him. He walked through the front gate, unconsciously grabbing a blue, weather-faded ticket from the dispenser as he went, surprised to find the turnstile still functional.
He'd only been to the fair once before, a couple of years before Reg Rollins moved into town. Back when he still had people he considered friends. Fellow gaming nerds who actually invited him to join them in fun activities. Before he was so ostracized that even they were afraid to be seen with him.
He remembered begging his grandmother for the admission fee, which she eventually gave him along with bruises across his back.
But it was worth it.
Turtleman remembered how magical the place had seemed. The bright, oscillating lights. The music streaming from every direction. The spinning, colorful rides. The smell of peanuts, roasted corn, turkey legs. People at every turn urging him to step right up and try his luck at this game or that. The bazaars. The oddities. The enormous crowds. The hot women.
He had gorged himself on cotton candy, caramel apples, funnel cakes, and pickles, then threw it all up after riding the nauseating Tilt-A-Whirl. He rode every ride, some more than once. He played nearly every game and loved them all, even if he never won a single stuffed animal.
The fair, that year occupying the entire parking lot of a closed grocery store, provided Turtleman with the best night of his life.
The carnival now was nothing like it was then. For starters, it was daytime, and any spectacle of light can lose its majesty in the daylight. But more than that, the silence and lack of motion, whether from rides or people, was completely gone, save for the Ferris wheel seats rocking in the breeze. The mouth-watering aromas of before were replaced with the ever-present odor of rot and decay. The stuffed animals, once covering every inch of every wall of every gaming booth, were now strewn around the fairgrounds, deflated, faded, missing eyes and noses, and partially covered in green mold. Many of the booths, themselves, were blown over or collapsed.
Turtleman walked up to one of the still-standing booths. The ball toss. Most of the target stations were either empty or the bottles already collapsed. But at one station, six aluminum bottles were stacked in the shape of a pyramid. There were no softballs on the counter.
Peering over the counter, he could see a collection of balls and bottles, as well as stuffed animals, all over the floor. He looked around himself, scanning the ground, and found two softballs beside the booth.
He picked them both up and, after studying the pyramid of bottles, tossed one of the balls at it.
Nowhere close.
The ball slapped against the tarped background and dropped uselessly to the ground, the only result being a couple of stuffed animals falling off the wall.
Well, you've got tits like a girl, and you like dick like a girl. Should be no surprise that you throw like a girl, too.
"Shut up."
He rolled the other ball in his hand and studied the pyramid, trying to figure out where the last throw had gone wrong, just like he'd done after every throw years ago. Satisfied that he simply needed to modify the point of release and follow through with his throwing motion, he wound up and hurled the second ball. Although it was a better throw and was closer, he still didn't hit a single bottle. The ball slammed against the front of the table the bottles were stacked on and bounced away. It was enough for the topmost bottle to shake a little, but none of them fell.
Strike two, queerbait.
Turtleman kicked the counter. He looked around for another ball that was easily accessible. When he didn't see one, he pulled his air rifle off his shoulder, pumped it twice (he'd loaded a BB and pumped it a few times earlier), and laid the gun across the counter to steady his aim. He peered down the sights along the barrel, aiming for the center of the middle bottle at the bottom of the pyramid.
"This is how you bring down bottles," he said confidently to the voice.
He pulled the trigger. The BB tinged the bottle precisely where he'd aimed, but then ricocheted and flew hard and fast toward Turtleman before he could react, swatting him in the forehead.
He let go of the rifle and stumbled backward. The butt-heavy rifle flipped off the counter and danced across the concrete, the pump popping out from the barrel. T
urtleman's hands went to his forehead. A trickle of blood stained his fingers. His head throbbed.
"Damn, that hurt!" He bent over to control a sudden fit of nausea.
When he stood up again, holding his head, he looked back to the bottles. The bottle he'd aimed for had moved a few centimeters, which had rattled the bottles above it, but none of them had fallen over.
The voice laughed. Strike three, you stupid, fat—
"Shut up! Please! Just shut up, for once!"
He leaned against the counter. A zombie lumbered around the corner, drawn in by his screaming. Turtleman saw it, then saw how slow it moved. He scooped up the air rifle, closing the pump, and held the gun like a baseball bat. Swinging it, he cracked the butt of the gun across the corpse's face.
The creature stepped back a few paces before losing its footing completely and falling over. From its back, it reached up for Turtleman. He stood over it, raised the rifle over his head, and brought it down again and again.
Eventually, the corpse stopped moving and Turtleman tossed what was left of the ruined rifle aside. Stepping back, he again leaned against the counter again, gasping for breath.
"Why do you talk to me like that?" he asked finally. "Why do you treat me like you do?"
Oh, Harry—
"Don't call me that."
I know you don't want to be him, but you don't become someone else by pretending to be, fat ass. You have to change who you are.
"How?"
Over there.
Turtleman looked up. Across the way was a funhouse mirror. Beside it, a wooden sign ask, "What would you look like as an alien? Find out = 1 Ticket."
He walked across and stood in front of the mirror, which was caked with dirt and grime. There were handles on either side of it, and it was enclosed in an octagonal cylinder.
Give it a spin.
Turtleman grabbed one of the handles and pulled. Even after being immobile all this time, it turned easily. He grabbed the handle with both hands and spun it with all his might. As the mirror whipped around on its axis, Turtleman's image danced in front of him as seven clean mirrors swung into view with each full turn, interrupted by the dirty one. He saw each image for only a fraction of a second. In each, he was reflected in a different way—tall or short, fat or thin, with knobby knees or a long forehead. He watched them flash by with wonder.
Finally, they started to slow, each clicking by. Then the mirrors stopped turning. A single image reflected back to him. It was a grotesque image of a squat, overweight, ugly troll. Turtleman stepped back in disgust.
There you are. Horrible, isn't it? That's how people see you. Yuck!
"That's not me…"
Oh, yes it is. It's no wonder you could never find a girl. Would you want to fuck that?
"I don't look like that!"
You actually do, Harry. But let's see what you want to be. Give it another spin.
Turtleman stepped up and grabbed both handles again. He pulled, harder this time, and again the mirrors flew past.
"I'm not Harry," he said under his breath as the mirrors turned. Eventually, they again slowed and then stopped.
Now the image he saw reflected in the warped and wavy funhouse mirror was worlds different. In it, he was tall with stretched legs and thin. His face was long instead of round. His shoulders were broad and his chest almost looked muscular. Even his machete, dangling from his hip, looked like a sword.
Turtleman lifted a hand to his face. His fingers, once stubby and fat but now long and lean, caressed his cheek where even after all this time, little more than peach fuzz had grown. A thin line of blood dried across his temple and along the outer regions of his cheek. He looked handsome. Rugged. Normal.
Now, that's better. There's a good-looking man who could get some pussy! Is that what you want to be?
Turtleman nodded.
I can help you get there, but you'd have to listen to me.
"What do I have to do?"
You've got to stop being that queerbait pussy, Harry Tuttleman. You said you were going to kill Reg Rollins, but you've been avoiding people.
"That's not true, I haven't seen anyone since—"
You haven't been looking very hard. Every time you see signs of where people might be—smoke from obvious campfires, the dead surrounding a building—you go the other way. You can't teach people to respect you if you avoid them. Until you show them you're a man, they'll never see for themselves.
Turtleman continued to look at his reflection in the mirror and nodded.
Until you kill Reg Rollins…you can't be him.
Turtleman didn't move. A tear streaked down his cheek.
"Show me."
Look.
"I am looking."
No. Look.
Turtleman stared at his reflection. He waited.
Then he saw it.
In the reflection, near his eyes, he saw movement. Small and dark, a speck slowly worked across the mirror.
Turtleman turned. Far away, well outside the fairgrounds, across the parking lot and beyond the outlet center, a girl and a smaller boy, probably her younger brother, pushed bicycles down the main road. He caught only a glimpse of them between two stores before they disappeared around a building.
Turtleman sucked in his breath and held it, his mouth agape, his bottom lip trembling.
Are you Harry Tuttleman, or are you Turtleman? the voice asked.
"I'm Turtleman," he responded, his eyes steady on the black patch of road where the kids had been.
Well, then. Maybe you should go introduce yourself.
Turtleman stepped away from the mirror and made his way towards the fair's exit.
Interlude #3
M ICHAEL DIDN'T HAVE A tent Thad could borrow, so after absconding with Marie's car and heading north up the Garden State Parkway, Thad caught the New York turnpike and got off in Middletown so he could hit the Wal-Mart Supercenter there. Summer was still in full swing, so the sporting goods section was fully stocked with camping gear.
There were a God-awful amount of tents to choose from—from small, triangular single-man pop-ups to family-sized, multiple-room extravagancies as large as a small house. There was a miniature version of nearly every type so the buyer could get a three-dimensional look at his options. They looked like accessories for some sort of Barbie-Goes-Camping collection.
He decided on something of the two-man variety that advertised to be perfect for mountainous settings with its double-skinned lining. It also featured all-around netting to keep out mosquitoes, a nice-sized porch area, and sown-in ground sheets. The box also promised an easy setup, which is what Thad was hoping for. The closest he'd ever come to pitching a tent was building blanket forts in the basement when he was a kid.
Next Thad knew he'd need a sleeping bag. Again the options seemed endless as did the designs. Obviously, he didn't need a child-sized sleeping bag with the latest popular Disney character emblazoned down the front. The adult sizes offered many choices separated by some sort of "season" system. "1 Season" were for hot climates, "5 Season" were for extreme Arctic weather, and seasons 2, 3, and 4 were for every environment in between. Thad reasoned that a "3 Season" was what he needed ("Good for warm or cold climates, except for the depths of harsh, snowy winters"). He didn't know how long he'd be using the tent, nor if it would get him through an Upstate-New-York winter if it were necessary, but he figured he'd deal with that when the time came.
Of course, beyond a tent and a sleeping bag, he was completely lost. Behind him were a half-dozen circular display racks with all styles of camouflaged clothing. One aisle over he could see the narrow ends of fishing poles jutting into the air. He could smell the gelatinous tackle. At the far end of the aisle, a Wal-Mart employee stood in front of a glass display case that showed off rifles of all gauges, any of which Thad was sure could be had without a waiting period.
Thad shook his head. He was certain he wouldn't need a gun. His father was a novice collector and Thad had told him to stock
up on ammunition as well as everything else.
Thad decided to keep it simple. He grabbed a lightweight flashlight with a side-flashing mechanism for emergencies along with a handful of batteries to power it. He tossed in some insect repellant and a ready-made first aid kit. He found a cook set with a stainless-steel pot and skillet, a plate and a mug that had bail handles, utensils, and a portable stove with a lightable gas canister. He added in a pack of ten extra canisters and put it all in his cart.
Finally, when heading out of the sporting goods section, he passed the main counter in from of the gun case and there saw a multi-tool, what many would call a Swiss-army knife, and had the sudden urge to buy it as well. Then, on a whim, he grabbed the top book off a stack on top of the counter (The Wilderness Survival Guide by Joe O'Leary) and tossed it in with the rest of his purchases.
Next, he went to the electronics department, where he'd evoke three sarcastic "okays" from the woman working the central counter. The first was when he bought a small, portable radio and loaded it with six full months of Sirius satellite service. The reception had always been surprisingly good at the top of the mountain where his father lived. Thad wanted to be able to listen to news coverage, and he wanted to be able to pick up more than local stations.
"O…kay," the teenager with the smiley-face button said when he opted out of the one-month free trial.
Then Thad grabbed a disposable cell phone and paid for six months worth of minutes and data coverage in advance. If he was right about how completely the world was fucked, he didn't think he'd get to use all six months of the phone or radio service. The orbiting satellites that sent the magic signals that powered them would likely stop sending signals shortly after the collapse of human civilization. But why not be prepared just in case.
"O…kay," she said again as she loaded the minutes on the phone.
Then when it came time to pay—for the radio coverage and the cell phone, as well as all he'd loaded into his cart while in sporting goods—he did so in cash.
"O…kay," she muttered a third time.
