It was the next morning when I heard a gentle tap at the door. I groggily pulled myself out of the cocoon of blankets and walked over to open the door. It was Sarah.
“He’s dead!” she blurted out before collapsing in my arms. She sobbed and whimpered. I felt acutely uncomfortable as I patted her on the back. The words felt hollow as I offered my feeble condolences.
With Sarah’s help, I buried Ben, wrapped in a hotel sheet, in the woods behind the hotel. After I was done shoveling the dirt back into the hole, I stood there and watched the clouds drift on by. Sarah sniffled a few times but nothing more. The grief had already been drained out of the both of us. We had already seen enough death to last a lifetime. One more burial hurt but nothing like it should have.
“Are you ready to go?” I suggested.
“I think so,” she said quietly.
“I’ll go pack the truck,” I said. “If you want you can spend some time here with your father. I’ll blow the horn to tell you when I’m ready to go.”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ll help.”
It was a half hour later when we drove away. This time I stayed off the highway and stuck to the back roads. I was still heading toward South Carolina, but my mind kept returning to what Ben had told me. Was it worth the trip to New Orleans to check out that story of his? I rolled the idea around in my head unsure what to do.
After a quiet lunch, the afternoon slipped by into a maze of side roads, small towns, and the gloom of the unending desolation. The gleaming white bones of cattle could be seen in the overgrown fields. If it wasn’t for the sight of an occasional bird, one would think that the whole world had gone and died. The CD of classical music in the stereo droned along through the speakers. It sounded like a funeral. After a while I turned it off. Sarah said nothing but only let out a tortured sigh with every other breath. I was amazed how well she was holding up.
After a few hours she finally asked, “Why do we live? I mean what’s the point if we are going to be so sad all of the time?”
“That’s a question that philosophers and religion has been asking for a very long time. I don’t have a good answer for you. But I will say that life isn’t enjoyed by looking inward. Instead it’s about making others happy. Only then will you find happiness for yourself.”
Sarah gave me a skeptical eyebrow raise.
“Or maybe I read that in a fortune cookie,” I added with a wink.
“You’re no help,” she said glumly. But there was a faint smile there.
When the sky was beginning to get dark, I found an old farmhouse that was set off from the road. I pulled into the driveway, past two parked cars that had seen better days, and pulled behind the home so the truck would be hidden from view from anyone going by. Rolling the window down, I shut the engine off and just listened. There was nothing to here but a nearby grackle making a fuss over something.
“Are we staying here?” Sarah asked with a soft voice tinged with anxiety. She appeared to still be a little uncertain of me which made sense since we were practically strangers.
“Better than sleeping in the truck,” I said.
“At least the truck isn’t haunted. This house looks haunted.”
“It’s just an old place,” I said with false confidence. Maybe she did have a point. The house had silvered paint and was in a state of disrepair that spoke of years beyond the time of the plague. The windows looked grimy while the concrete steps leading to the back door were cracked. But the nearby barn, made of wood and painted a picturesque red with white trim, was in good shape.
“Anyways there are no such things as ghosts,” I added.
“If you say so.” She didn’t seem to believe me.
“Stay here,” I said as I took the flashlight out of the glovebox and handed it to her.
I got out with my pistol at the ready. I carefully scouted the land around the house. Other than my own there were no fresh footprints or tire marks. When I was sure that we were alone, I motioned for Sarah to get out of the truck. She did so silently, careful not to slam the door shut. She moved quietly as if fearing to wake the dead. I tried the front door. It was locked. A judicious tap with the butt of my shotgun I broke the glass and was able to reach inside and release the deadbolt. By now I was feeling like a practiced criminal. I stepped inside. Sarah followed, eyes wide like a frightened bird.
There was enough outside light to see. We found ourselves in a living room with outdated furniture, an antique floor lamp, gaudy floral wallpaper, and wooden floors covered by a large brown rug. The television was an old tube type set in a large cabinet. On top of this a collection of records was stacked next to a cheap turntable and receiver. Dust was everywhere. Some time ago, an enterprising spider had built a huge web across the entryway into the kitchen. A flight of dark stairs went up to the second story. A closet was open with a jumble of coats and mittens strewn on the floor. Next to this was an open door leading to the basement.
“Is anyone here?” I called out. I paused to listen. Nothing.
With no answer, I brushed the web aside and proceeded to the kitchen. Sarah followed closely behind, clutching the flashlight like a talisman. The floor here was white tile. The cupboards were also painted white and the countertop was laminated with a pale yellow color. A glass slider led to a small back patio. There was a faint but rank smell of rotting food in the air. A quick search and I found nothing to eat. Even the bottle of catsup in the refrigerator was empty. I had a vision of some hungry soul using the last remnants to make some vile soup.
Sarah stayed near. She looked scared but not quite ready to take flight.
I went to the stairs heading down and peered into the gloom below. There was nothing to see but darkness. “Hand me the flashlight.”
After a moment of hesitation Sarah surrendered the flashlight.
I turned it on and played the beam on the dusty stairs.
“Stay here,” I suggested.
She nodded, stepping back so she could be closer to front door, as if wanting to run away.
I took the stairs slowly. When I got to the bottom I saw the journey was hardly worth the effort. There was a washing machine, dryer, and a pile of clothes on the concrete floor. Further in the recesses of the basement were a water heater, duct work in the rafters, pipes, and an old-fashioned gas heater. A workbench was shoved into the back wall. I played the beam of light along the tools hung up on the wall. I didn’t see anything we needed so I headed back upstairs.
Sarah looked relieved to see me.
I gave her a smile. “Nothing down there. I’m going upstairs. Do you want to come with me or stay here?”
She licked her lips. “I think I’ll stay here. Just don’t be gone long.”
“Don’t worry.”
Heading upwards, the steps squeaked under my feet. I clung to the bannister, using it to guide me. Reaching the top, I found myself on the landing that led to a small hallway with three closed doors. A runner rug spanned the short distance.
The first door led to a modest bathroom with a toilet and a clawfoot tub. Searching through the medicine cabinet, I found a still sealed bottle of aspirin that I stuffed into my pocket. There was also a motley assortment of worthless items: used toothbrushes, a rolled up tube of toothpaste, and two safety razors.
The next room was a small bedroom, unoccupied. There was a queen bed here squeezed up against the wall, a window that overlooked the back yard, and a small nightstand with a brass table lamp. The floor here was made with wood planks that were uneven. I opened the drawer of the nightstand and found an odd collection of memorabilia including old photographs with faded colors, a few postcards from tourist traps, and a snow globe of Mount Rushmore.
I slowly opened the door of the last room. This was occupied, but not by anyone alive. On the bed were two figures resting as still as stone. In the darkness my imagination expected these bodies to rise like the undead, but from the odor I could tell they were long expired. Taking a step closer, I could see the remains w
ere beginning to mummify. A stain of blood, now dark brown with age, was on the pillowcases. A shiver went up my spine when I saw the little revolver clutched in the man’s hand. He had presumably shot his wife and then had taken his own life. I went over to free the pistol from the corpse’s grip. A feeling of sadness almost stopped me. Instead I took a deep breath and pulled it free from his hand. It was a sickening experience but I soon had a little twenty-two caliber Browning in my hand. I checked the loads. There were four shots left. It wasn’t much of a gun but it could be useful. I stuffed it in my front pocket, the butt sticking out from the denim.
I returned to the ground floor. Once again Sarah looked relieved to see me.
“Is there anyone up there?” she asked.
I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should shield Sarah from the truth that we were essentially disturbing a tomb. But I decided that I couldn’t shield her from reality. She would have to learn, if she hadn’t already, that we were living in a new world. “There are two people upstairs in one of the bedrooms. They’ve been dead for a long time. They won’t be bothering us.”
She only slowly nodded as she digested that information. “I’ll go get the blankets from the truck,” she finally said.
“And then we’ll have to decide what we want to eat for dinner.”
I watched her go outside and thought to myself that she was going to be alright. She was tougher than she looked.
October 22nd - Morning
Sarah had slept on the sofa, gently snoring through the night. I had taken the overstuffed chair, which was way more uncomfortable than it looked. I suffered from insomnia even during the best of times, and the worn out springs of this chair did little to help my sleeplessness. Instead I had suffered through the night: the settling of the house making strange noises, the information I had learned about the virus, and my brain feeling overloaded with the responsibility of taking care of this girl. Sometime in the middle of the night I managed to pass out from exhaustion. When I finally did awake, I felt as if my head was caught tight in a vice. I would need some aspirin to get through the day.
Sarah was already up, busy trying to figure out how the camping stove worked. I took that as a good sign; volunteering to make breakfast. I helped. Soon we had some canned hash to eat – I was getting sick of this greasy stuff but a meal is a meal. Afterward she cleaned up the dishes while I got busy packing our belongings back into the truck. We were soon on the road.
I thought we were in Kentucky now, at least based on the rolling hills and the license plates of the parked cars. The roads were clear until we were some ten miles away from the farmhouse. I was lumbering along at an easy pace, keeping a look out for that motorcycle gang. We were going down a two-lane country road, surrounded by overgrown fields, little farmhouses, and white fences. A few dead horses – now all scraps of flesh and bones – dotted the ground. The sun was shining above and it looked pleasant enough even though winter was coming. Ignoring the CD collection, Sarah was fiddling with the radio fruitlessly trying to find a station. There was only static.
In the rear-view mirror, I noticed a cop car coming from behind. It was a Dodge Charger that moving fast. It was painted black and had the yellow markings. The red and blue lights began to flash.
Sarah stared at me with big eyes. She asked, “What are you going to do?”
In normal days I would have dutifully pulled over and found out what I was doing wrong. At worst I would have gotten a ticket. But these weren’t normal times. Now I could be killed on a whim or robbed for my truck or gasoline. Without a word of explanation to the girl, I put the gas pedal down and started to edge away from the pursuer. I knew that moment wouldn’t last for long since even the powerful eight-cylinder engine in the truck was no match for this pursuit vehicle meant to intercept lawbreakers.
The Dodge quickly closed the gap. It got so close to the rear bumper that the front hood disappeared in the rearview mirror. I could easily make out the driver. It was a police officer, or at least someone dressed as one. He had a blonde mustache and a wide nose. Sitting next to him was another man, this one was balding and dressed in a flannel shirt. Neither were smiling.
I could feel a rush of adrenaline course through my veins, strong enough to make my hands shake. These bastards were a little too sure of themselves. It was time to make the odds in my favor.
“Hold on!” I shouted as I slammed hard on the brakes. I felt the car behind me slide under the rear bumper of my truck with a metallic crumple. I reached down and jerked the lever up on the transfer case, moving the power to both the front and rear axles. I then spun the steering wheel to the right and went straight into the ditch on the side of the road. Sarah screamed. As the Toyota dipped alarmingly down, the nose just kissed the leading edge of the dirt. And then we were up and over, crashing through a wooden fence, and then running along a weed-choked field, bouncing over the many ruts.
Laughing like a crazed man, I turned and looked through the dust behind us. I saw that the driver of the Dodge, in the heat of the moment, had tried to follow. But a car that’s made for speed on the road doesn’t have the ground clearance of a true off-road vehicle. He had apparently gotten stuck in the ditch. For my vantage point all I could see was the rear of the car pointing up in the air. I could only imagine the damage to the front bumper. It would take them some time to get clear of that.
I came to the edge of the field where it met a gulley thick with tired trees. During the spring a seasonal stream must run through here. There was also a rough track that ran parallel to this and led straight away from the road. I didn’t know where it went, but it had to be better than where we had been. So I added a little more speed and we were soon out of sight of our pursuers.
“Are you okay?” I finally asked Sarah.
She gave me a lopsided grin. “I’ll never say a bad word about this truck again.”
I patted the dash. “She may not be a racecar, but she gets there in the end. However we aren’t out of the woods yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well they know what direction we went and that Dodge, once freed of the ditch, can still go faster than we can. With two men working at it, it won’t take them long to push that car out. So we have to outsmart them.”
“But how?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something. They can either find a way to follow us down this two-track, or they can try to intercept us on the next main road ahead. My guess is they will do the latter, unless they are angry enough to take some risks with their vehicle. Either way, we won’t be able to outrun them in the end.”
The two-track went by an old barn that had seen better days. With all the holes, sagging roof, and silvered wood, the entire structure looked as if a single puff of wind would blow it all over. The foundation was surrounded with scrubby bushes, indicating that this building had been abandoned long ago. In days past it would have looked positively quaint, but now it just reminded me that all things must eventually succumb to decay. I stopped next to the ancient structure and put the truck into reverse, trying to pushing the back bumper deep into the decaying vegetation.
When I got as far as I could I jerked the transmission into park. “Get out,” I said to Sarah.
She opened the door and was out of the truck. I pulled the recently acquired Browning pistol out, killed the engine, and exited.
“Where are we going?” Sarah asked.
“Hold on,” I replied. “Have you ever fired a gun before?”
She shook her head. “My parents said they were bad.”
I nodded. “They were right, but these days they’re a necessity.” I showed her the pistol resting in my hand. “This here is the safety. And this here is the trigger. You’re going to hide over there in the woods while I stay hidden in the barn. If those men come here, I want you to turn the safety off and then fire a round into the air. Do you think you could do that?”
Sarah looked at me, her eyes wide, but she looked intr
igued by the idea of carrying a pistol. She eagerly stuck her hand out to take the weapon.
“Now I want you to be careful,” I warned her. “Just fire the one shot and then turn the safety back on. Don’t play with the gun and especially don’t point it at me or yourself. I want you to only fire it again if those men come and try to hurt you. There are only four rounds so if you have to do that, shoot to kill. Do you understand?”
She slowly nodded, eyes filled with doubt. “Yes, Tom,” she finally replied.
I placed the Browning in her hand. She held it gingerly as if the hunk of metal could bite her. Perhaps that was the best way for her to treat a loaded gun.
I pointed to a group of pine trees. “Get yourself in a good position over there. Stay low and out of sight. Shoot the gun in the air when they stop and are completely out of the car. Got it?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice edged with excitement.
“Now get going, we don’t have much time.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry about me, but I’ll make sure we get out of here in one piece, okay?”
“Okay, Tom,” Sarah replied. “You’re not going to hurt them are you?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.” She then took off running and soon disappeared into the thick pine trees.
I called out, “Can you see me from where you are?”
“Yes!” she replied with a shout.
“Okay, just do what I said. And remember, stay hidden!” I then turned and looked the barn over. The main sliding door on the side had fallen off its tracks and was leaning at an angle. There was just enough room for someone to squeeze through. I went this route, stepping cautiously over the debris since this would be a bad time to step on a rusty nail. I ducked under the decrepit door, getting a face full of cobwebs in the process. Inside it was a wreck. In the corner was an old car with a dented bumper, smashed out windows, and flat tires. It looked as tired as I felt. A few rusty farm implements hung on the walls which had enough gaps that I could see much of the outside. The floor was covered with dust, mouse droppings, and bits of straw that had turned gray with time.
The Dead Are Sleeping Page 6
