by Tony Urban
Ramey tried to tune it all out and concentrate on antiderivatives and integrals. By the time she finished her test, Loretta was passed out on the couch and snoring like a buzz saw. Ramey realized the television had gone silent and, at first, assumed their service had been shut off due to an unpaid bill. When she looked to the screen, she saw a generic announcement reading, “This is a Test of the Emergency Broadcasting System. This is only a Test.” Ramey scrolled through the channels and saw they all had the same white text on the same blue background.
She shut off the TV and returned her attention to the laptop. A quick trip to Twitter seemed normal enough at first. #EastWestKardashianBaby was the top hashtag, but second on the list was #deadpresident. Further down, after #beiberpenis and #beyonceshair was even stranger.
#zombiepresident
Ramey clicked away from Twitter for an actual news site, but before one could load, the Internet went down.
5
As he snorted a thin line of coke off the girl’s perky C cup breast, Mitch realized his life was damned near perfect. Months ago, if you’d have told him he would love private school he’d have said you were a stupid son of a bitch. He’d assumed the kids would all be nerdy, little rich fuckers who wanted to be surgeons or physicists or, like his own father, politicians.
The rich fuckers part was right, of course. Only God and his father knew how much tuition here was, but that was his only correct assumption. For the most part, his fellow classmates were just like him. Kids with too much money, too little responsibility, and parents who were too busy to supervise. Or care, for that matter. Mitch was days away from finishing his junior year at The Marsten Academy and never wanted it to end. Especially with Rochelle’s perfect, bouncy tits to play with.
“Save some for me, Mitchy,” she said as he made another line disappear up his nose. “Don’t hog it.”
He grabbed a glass vial and considered pouring the cocaine on his cock, but settled on the back of his hand. Rochelle quickly sniffed it away. Mitch watched as her pupils contracted and her IQ dropped to double digits and grinned. A hyena’s grin. He poured more coke on the tip of his tongue, then took her perfect, pencil eraser sized nipple into his mouth and rolled his drug laced tongue around it. She moaned so loud and long he thought he might cum just listening to her.
They fucked like rabbits. When she was high, she’d do anything Mitch could imagine and some things he’d never even seen on the internet. God, he’d been so very wrong about private school.
Rochelle passed out after almost an hour of screwing, but Mitch was flying high and sleep was nowhere on his horizon. He grabbed his cell phone and saw he had eight missed calls, all from the same caller — Senator SOB according to his caller ID — otherwise known as his father. He thought about listening to the eight subsequent voicemails, then decided against it. The day was going great, why ruin it?
Instead, Mitch took a bottle of Valium (prescribed to one Rosalita Guiterrez) from the nightstand and popped two in his mouth. He was halfway through dry swallowing them when the phone rang again.
“Son of a bitch!” As the words came out his mouth a pill snagged in his throat. He coughed and gagged as the bitter taste filled his mouth. When the pill finally slid down his gullet, he swiped the phone to answer. When he tried to speak, his raw throat spasmed and another coughing fit overcame him.
“Mitchell? Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
Mitch found an almost empty can of Red Bull on the floor and downed the few remaining sips of liquid. “I’m fine. What do you want?”
“Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I was studying,” Mitch said as he looked at the beautiful, naked girl on his bed. “Anatomy.” He had to cover the phone as he laughed at his own joke.
“Forget about that.”
That was new. Senator SOB was all about studying. Mitch realized something must be seriously wrong and wondered if he’d done something worthy of expulsion. Maybe his side business dealing drugs had been exposed. As he thought about round two with Rochelle, he hoped that wasn’t the case.
“You’re being evacuated.”
“What?”
“I’ve sent a helicopter for you. It will arrive within the hour.”
“What?”
“You’re a spoiled asshole, Mitchell, but you’re not stupid so open your ears and close your mouth. There is a viral outbreak and Congress and their families are being moved to a safe zone. Go to the football field and wait. Don’t take anything with you. And speak of this to no one.”
Mitch wanted to say ‘what’ again but stopped himself. He hated his father but what he heard in the man’s voice differed from the anger and rage he often aimed in Mitch’s direction. What he was hearing was fear.
“Yes, sir.” He hadn’t called his father ‘sir’ in years, if ever.
The line went dead.
Mitch stood on the 50-yard line when he heard the helicopter approaching from the south. He’d left Rochelle asleep in the bed. That was easier than trying to explain away a last minute chopper ride to who the fuck knows where, especially when he was forbidden to give out any details.
A viral outbreak, his father had said. What did that even mean? Zika? Ebola? It must be pretty fucking serious to round up everyone in congress and their dipshit families. He wondered if that was just a cover story and if the truth was an impending terrorist attack. Maybe ISIS bought a fleet of nukes and planned to make every major U.S. city glow.
When he saw the chopper dropping in from the sky was of the military variety, his terrorist theory gained even more strength. A door swung open and a soldier carrying one of the biggest rifles Mitch had ever seen pointed at him.
“Mitchell Frederick Chapman?”
Mitch nodded. His mouth had gone too dry to speak.
“Show me your ID.”
Not even a ‘please’. Mitch flashed the Student ID on his lanyard. The soldier examined it, looked at Mitch’s face, then turned his attention to a clipboard. He saw what he wanted and waved Mitch forward. When he was close enough, the man grabbed Mitch by the back of the jacket and hoisted him aboard. Mitch fell into the dusty canvas seat and rolled into a sitting position.
“Buckle up.”
Mitch saw the soldier’s nameplate read Miller and did as ordered. “Where are we going?”
Miller didn’t respond to Mitch. Instead he hammered the cockpit door and the helicopter began a rapid ascension. Mitch looked down at the campus where a few of his classmates were looking skyward toward the spectacle.
“Hey, where are you taking me?”
The soldier looked at Mitch through his black sunglasses. “That’s classified. Speaking of which, let me see your phone.”
It took Mitch two tries to pull it from his pocket because his hands had gone cold and sweaty. He handed it over to Miller who immediately powered the unit down. Mitch held out his hand for its return, but instead Miller tossed it out of the chopper where it plummeted into the abyss.
“Nice,” Mitch said. “Thanks for that. You know who my father is, right?” Ugh, the ‘you know who my dad is’ card. That was low, even for him.
“I do. Now why don’t you shut your ratty little face—” Miller sneezed twice, then resumed. “And be thankful you’re one of the few people who get to live through this.”
He turned his back to Mitch who felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. It wasn’t the insult. he’d heard worse, even from his own parents.
One of the few people who get to live… What the fuck was happening?
6
The cold steel of the crescent wrench felt good in his hand. He liked the weight of it. That the bolt holding on the broken wheel bearing refused to budge hadn’t even annoyed him. Yet. Solomon Baldwin was a patient man. Patience was, he thought, one of his best qualities. The ability to remain calm when a lesser man would lose his temper or dissolve into a blubbering mess had risen him far beyond his expected station in life.
He clenched his jaw an
d used almost all of his considerable strength against the bolt. Just as it gave way, he heard two bints chattering away from the sidewalk. One power walked and held small weights in each hand. The other pushed a baby buggy. He didn’t know their names, but their plain, homely faces were familiar enough. He remembered them from the neighborhood picnics his wife, Wendy, forced him to attend, even though he’d have rather spent his time crushing his own balls in a vice than socialize. Their voices were murmurs, but he knew they were talking about him.
“Last week LuAnn saw the guy from the gas company, the one with the beard who reads the meters--”
“He looks like the guy from the Dos Equis commercials.”
“I guess, kinda. But she saw him walking out of their house zipping up his pants and grinning like a tomcat.”
“God, I hope that’s true. Maybe I have a chance.”
“But your husband’s sorta handsome. Not like him.” She glanced toward Solomon’s driveway but couldn’t see him peering back from the cover of darkness beneath the car. “Could you blame her? He reminds me of a wild dog. About as charming as one too.”
“Ever get a good look at his teeth? They look like rotten kernels of corn.”
Solomon clenched his fists and, in doing so, the wrench slipped and he slammed his knuckles into the undercarriage, ripping the flesh away from the bone. He stayed quiet though. He wouldn’t let those cows know they’d got under his skin.
The blood dripped off his hand and splashed against his face in fat, ruby-colored raindrops. The metallic flavor of it lit up his taste buds as it streamed into his mouth and across his teeth, which were not unlike rotten corn at all, truth be told.
Solomon Baldwin wasn’t big on mottos or slogans or sayings but if he had to choose a few words to live by, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you” would have been a good start. That was especially true the last few months. He’d long suspected his wife, Wendy, was cheating on him again. She dyed her hair bleach blonde and lost half a stone or more. But it was more than that. It was her demeanor. The bird glowed. And she hadn’t glowed like that in years.
Proving it was another matter. He’d hired on extra employees at his construction firm, only going out when he needed to bid jobs or meet with clients, all so he could spend more time at home. Only that didn’t work. She went out more. He offered to tag along on her little errands, “It’ll be like we’re dating again,” he assured her, but she wouldn’t hear it. “I’m going tanning” was the common excuse. The bird should well be the color of a Hershey bar for as much time as she professed to spend in tanning beds. But he’d never let on that he suspected anything. He wanted proof before he acted.
Now, it seemed he’d got his proof from two busybody neighbors, and there’d be hell to pay. Growing up in Birmingham, the other lads called him Sol. At least that’s what most people assumed. Sol, short for Solomon. Only they weren’t really calling him Sol. His nickname was Saw. And he wasn’t afraid to use his teeth.
He wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his uninjured hand and in the process smeared red across the bottom half of his face. He could feel the hot wetness of it against his skin and slid on his back across the rough pavement and into the light of day. As he rolled onto his belly, then raised up on his knees the gossipy bitches couldn’t help but look.
Solomon never losing eye contact with them as he rose to his feet. “Wotcha.”
The women looked at each other, eyes narrowed and Solomon thought they looked like rabbits ready to run from a hungry fox.
“Excuse me?” the uglier of the two asked.
“I’m sorry ladies. It’s the Brummie slipping out of me.” He strolled toward them, every step full of purpose. “Just a way of saying ‘howdy’ back home.”
When he reached them, he had to battle back a grin when each took a step away. Solomon was as wide as the two of them put together, but only an inch or two taller. What he lacked in height, he made up in power.
“Oh. Well, hello to you too, Mr. Baldwin.”
He gave a broad smile that showed almost all of his remaining teeth. “Fine day out, is it not?”
The less ugly of the two nodded and gave a nervous titter. “It sure is. A good day to do some repairs. And cheaper than going to a mechanic, right,” she said with a motion toward his car.
Solomon looked from the women to the car, then back again. “If I do the work, I know it’s done right. Don’t have nothing to do with money at all. I got plenty o dat. Or have you heard otherwise?”
She lost her fake smile and glanced at her friend (help me!) who remained closed mouthed. “No, I… I didn’t mean that at all. I just meant that garages are so overpriced. You know?”
“I know. Course I know. Be a fool not to. Do you think I’m a fool?” He could almost feel the fear coming off their bodies like electricity from power lines and it made him happier than he’d been in weeks. He knew they were ready to flee, but he wanted to draw the fun out a bit longer so he looked at the cooing brat buckled into the buggy. The boy was about a year old with a fat face and pallid skin. Drool dribbled from his mouth and Solomon saw white bits poking from his pink gums.
“Looks like he’s gettin his tuttie pegs already.”
The women exchanged another confused and fearful glance. “His what?” the mother asked.
He reached down with his blood and grease stained hand and pushed the toddler’s upper lip to show the teeth. “Tuttie pegs. Baby teeth, I guess you birds call them.”
“Oh, yes. He’s teething almost nonstop lately.”
Solomon drew back his hand and left behind a smear of black and red on the boy’s small, pinched face. The mother looked down with dismay and extracted a wet nap from her pocket. When she went to use it, Solomon grabbed her wrist.
“He’ll be aw right. Little blood and grease is just what a boy needs.” He increased the pressure of his grip, but exerted far less than force than he was capable of producing. “Makes a man out of im.”
He released her hand. A white outline remained behind as she drew back, dropping the wet nap to the sidewalk.
“I’ll get that for you. Wouldn’t want to leave trash lyin around in this fine neighborhood.”
As he bent at the waist to pick up the napkin, the two women jumped forward like someone had shot off a starter’s pistol. “Thank you, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Don’t mention it. And call me Saw. All my friends do.”
He watched them scurry down the street like the scared rabbits they were. As they disappeared around the corner he thought to check his watch. His wife should have been home an hour ago. But that was okay. He’d be waiting for her.
7
Almost everyone thought it was the cities that were cesspools overflowing with assholes with no morals or human decency, but wanna be Mayberrys like the pissant town in which Aben currently found himself were much worse. Growing up, he’d always heard about small-town values but in real life, when you were an outsider passing through their borders, their arms were never open and their welcome was never warm. That’s why he found himself handcuffed to a lead pipe inside what was possibly the smallest police station in the U.S.
He’d arrived in town the night before. A long-haul trucker on route to Kansas City picked him up in Boston where he’d been panhandling outside a Whole Foods. Aben wasn’t looking for a ride, but he’d been rambling around Massachusetts for seven or 10 days and was short on cash. New England was pretty, but so damned expensive.
The trucker, Jay or Ray, Aben couldn’t remember which, was a talker and during the eight or so hours they spent rolling along the East Coast highways Aben heard the man’s life story backward and forward. Jay or Ray didn’t listen much, but that suited Aben fine as he didn’t care to be heard.
Crudely cut out pictures from skin magazines filled the cab. Jay or Ray seemed to have a particular fetish for assholes and several perversely close-up clippings decorated the dash. During the long ride Aben came
to view them as an obscene version of connect the dots. One time he made a spaceship.
Jay or Ray was a gargantuan man who wore a button-down shirt which was at least two sizes too small. Aben kept waiting for the buttons which were under constant duress, to pop off like tiny, round missiles. He was afraid one might put his eye out. The worry kept him awake the entire trip.
Three fourths of the way through Pennsylvania an accident forced them off the turnpike and onto narrow two-lane roads. Jay or Ray, who had been perfectly pleasant until that point grew increasingly sullen with each laborious mile. His mood turned even darker when he almost steamrolled a whitetail deer that bounced in front of the truck as the 18 wheeler rolled down a steep hill, forcing Jay or Ray to slam on the brakes and come to a squealing stop which sent the trailer skidding dangerously to the side before the trucker got it back under control.
“Cocksuckersonofabitchfuck!” Jay or Ray blurted out with enough vehemence to send spittle flying into the windshield.
Aben laughed. That was a poor decision and as soon as they hit the next town, Jay or Ray said it was best to part ways. His cab was a dictatorship, and it was not up for debate.
As far as Aben could tell, the town where the trucker abandoned him consisted of one gas station, a blinking yellow light, and a pizza shop which sat between a few shuttered storefronts. He decided he was in the mood for Italian and ventured inside.
A purple-haired teenage girl with so much acne on her face she could have been the before picture in a Proactiv ad, leaned on the counter. She half glanced up from her cell phone, then took a better look when she realized the customer was a stranger.
In fairness, Aben understood he didn’t make the best first impression. His clothes had gone unwashed for several weeks and his body in almost as long. He had a wild, patchy beard that stretched high onto his cheekbones and made him look more like a werewolf with mange than Grizzly Adams.
