Running Red

by Jack Bates

  I dig the crumpled pack out of my pocket again and toss it back to Auntie Alice. “Keep them,” I say.

  She slides them into the pocket of her sweater. Eighty plus degrees outside and she wears a sweater jacket. “You should take your guest inside,” Auntie Alice says to Aubrey. “Fix her a glass of lemonade.”

  “You have lemonade?” I ask.

  “All the conveniences of home,” Auntie Alice says. Her smile, though closed and not revealing her teeth, feels even more deadly.

  Aubrey motions with his head for me to follow him inside. I start to take my hiking backpack off, but Aubrey tells me to bring it with me. Matt watches us go inside. He does not move from the swing. As the screen door swings shut on the spring, I hear Auntie Alice talking pleasantly to Matt, but I don’t hear what she says.

  In the kitchen, Aubrey opens an old-fashioned refrigerator. I’ve seen these antiques before in other old houses. The door shuts with a click. What surprises me more than the age of the fridge is the glowing light on the inside.

  It feels good to undo the hip belt of the backpack. Next I undo the chest snaps and slip my arms out of the straps. The backpack leans against the wall like the husk of a mutated, giant beetle. I twist my hips. My spine cracks.

  The walls of the kitchen are covered in a shiny white paper with little berries on it. A baker’s rack is littered with dead or dying plants. Hand towels are draped through rings on the side and front of the rack; if someone were to use them, he would probably pull the rack over. The table in here is oval shaped with squared off corners. Its four tan, vinyl covered chairs—seats sitting atop pedestals—have wheels instead of legs. The set is out of place. Nothing seems to match in this room.

  “How do you have power here?” I ask.

  “A generator. We siphoned the gas of the cars in town to fuel it.” He uses a plastic scoop inside a wide can to measure out the amount for a single glass of lemonade. In a drawer next to the sink are spoons, forks, and knives. Aubrey takes a spoon and stirs the white powder sinking slowing to the bottom of the glass, the spoon clinking against the beveled sides. This sound is music to me, an almost forgotten song of the old world.

  The house is an illusion. Even its name has been stripped away, masking reality. I’m not visiting a friend on a hot summer evening. I’m visiting a camp, a fortress. And if I don’t keep reminding myself of this, I could become trapped like the others I saw in the tents out back.

  “So what’s the deal here?” I ask. The water is cold. The lemonade tastes so good.

  Aubrey leans back against the counter. “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s start with Auntie Alice.”

  “She’s not really anyone’s aunt.”

  “I got that. Why did she go all ape shit on Matt?”

  Aubrey stares uneasily at me. “We have rules,” he says. His voice softens.

  “And she’s the enforcer of the rules?”

  “When Denny’s not here, she’s in charge.”

  “Who is this Denny guy you all keep talking about?” I drink half the lemonade in my glass.

  “He’s just this guy.”

  “Did he live here in the house?”

  Aubrey shrugs. He is uncomfortable talking about the mysterious Denny.

  “Is that how Denny would have handled it?”

  Aubrey doesn’t say anything. He looks at my backpack.

  “How far did you walk today?” he asks.

  “Twelve miles,” I say. I finish the last of my lemonade.

  “Carrying that?” Aubrey nods his head at the pack. I can see why he’s intimidated by it. With it on my back, it must look like I’m carrying a small man. My tent roll hangs off the bottom.

  “Every step. I call it Baby.” I flash a grin. Aubrey stares at the pack. After a second or two of silence, he looks up at me and smiles.

  “You must be beat.”

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “You can put your tent up out back with the others. Denny won’t mind.”

  I shake my head. The room dips and rises for a second. I reach out for the baker’s rack. Sure enough, it leans under my weight. My head clears. “I don’t think I’m going to stay.”

  “Where else you going to go?”

  My eyelids feel unusually heavy. I blink. “Hmm?”

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Just a little tired. Guess the hike got to me after all.” I yawn. For some reason it embarrasses me. I laugh and shake my head. “Sorry.”

  Aubrey is all too near to me. I can feel his hands on my arms. He’s holding me up. I try to step back, but I bump into the baker’s rack. A plant topples to the floor. Its roots are dry and stiff, curled.

  “I think you need to crash here,” Aubrey says.

  “I gotta get back to her,” I say.

  “Get back to who?” Aubrey asks. His voice is low. I don’t think he wants anyone else to hear.

  There’s a moment of clarity. I stop myself from saying anything about Yuki. “The road,” I say. “I gotta get back on the road.” My words are like ripe plums falling from my mouth. Then my legs are gone and I’m standing on rubber stumps.

  I’m in Aubrey’s arms. My head rolls over my breasts, my legs dangle over one of his strong arms. His other arm is around my back. This is how he carries me out of the kitchen, like I’m a baby who has fallen asleep in his tanned arms. We enter the living room and there stand Auntie Alice and Matt. Leaning over the banister of the stairs is a man with thick brown hair that touches his shoulders. He has a reddish beard that covers most of his face. Round, wire glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt under a denim jacket. He looks like a lion. The man says nothing.

  Aubrey carries me down a short side hall to a rear sunroom, where he lays me down on a daybed with a bright yellow, vinyl cushion. The bed is soft, like a cloud. Dusty sunlight cuts a path onto my face from one of the four large windows above me. Aubrey stares at me with familiar eyes. For an instant his head is replaced by Yuki’s. I giggle, blink, and Aubrey is back.

  Someone says something and Aubrey looks away from me. He leaves the room. I’m left alone with the bearded man. He looks down at me and smiles.

  He says, “Hello, Sunshine.”

  I should have stayed hidden in the storeroom of the Get Gas. There was a reason I partnered up with a dog. Yuki was loyal, trustworthy. She was a best friend.

  And I left her behind because of a pair of cool, blue eyes.

  * * *

  I wake up in my old bedroom. I’m back in my parents’ house. I am surprised to be back here. My next thought is, “Where’s Jess? Does she have the baby?” The house has that empty feel, and I can sense the loneliness along my arms as the gooseflesh pops and deep in my chest as the solitude crushes me. My mind’s eye seeks out each room, searching for someone, anyone. I think I am alone.

  It’s either early morning or late evening because the sun isn’t all that bright and it hangs so that it glows directly into my eyes through a narrow slot between window blind and windowsill. I sit up in my bed and look around. The sun is at an angle that it shines into my eyes. I shield them with my hand.

  “Hey, Sunshine,” someone says. I know the voice. I look over at my cluttered desk. All of my posters and printouts of alternative bands and singers are still pinned around my mirror. My computer is on and I see Lane. His black hair has blue highlights on the bangs. He’s pulled the bangs up into a kind of pointy pompadour over his right temple. All of his piercings are in his nose and ear. The spiked dog collar we got at a pet store is hanging loosely around his neck.

  “Where are you?” I ask. I slide over on the bed. I want him to sit next to me. He stands at the door. “You haven’t been around lately.”

  Lane says, “I’ve been making you pancakes. Your dad won’t let me bring them to you.”

  “You can bring them now,” I say.

  “No, I can’t,” Lane says.

  “My dad’s not home.”

  “I kno
w. He’s here.”

  My dad leans into the screen. I see his thinning hair, his shiny forehead, his puffy, red cheeks, the plastic and wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. He pushes them up and I notice his fingernails are painted pink.

  “Dad, why are you at Lane’s?” I ask.

  He puts his finger to his lips and the tip pops open. Red juice runs out of it and down his chin. Red juice sprays from his fingertip. Red juice begins spilling out of my screen.

  My bedroom door flies open. My mom is covered in strawberry colored pimples. She scratches at them, ripping them open. Red juice runs down her arms. Mom screams at me. “This is what happens,” she says. “This is what happens.”

  And I know she’s blaming me for the rash.

  Five

  A low watt bulb burns in a pull lamp at the foot of the daybed. It casts a yellowish glow over the narrow room. The bare bulb reflects against one of the panes of glass above and beside me. Night shrouds the world beyond the panes of glass. The small sunroom is quiet. There’s something comforting about my surroundings. I don’t feel alone here, but I don’t feel safe, either.

  One of the windows is open. I can hear music outside: A man sings and plays a guitar. Someone accompanies him on a harmonica. It’s an old song, and I can pick out some of the words. When it gets to the part everyone outside knows, the crowd joins in with the guitar player. It sounds like there is a party going on in the backyard.

  A cool breeze rolls past the loose screen in the window. I watch the meshing undulate, as if the house is breathing. Campfire smoke drifts past. It is summer and it is night, and somewhere under the stars there is a bonfire. Tiny tears sting my eyes. There were so many nights like this back home. Friends gathered around the flames, laughing, singing, dancing.

  And Lane was there. Lane with his bad boy pout and black leather jacket with the knife cut on the right shoulder from that night at that concert. The faded skull painted on the back. Lane was there and I felt safe with him. I cry and I hate myself for being weak. I haven’t thought of Lane in a long time. The dream re-awakened how alone I’d been feeling.

  There is a dull ache in my head. I feel slightly nauseous. I want to sit up, but I’m a little uncertain. Every now and then it feels like the daybed is floating on rolling waves. I need fluids, I think, but I can’t get up to get them. Not yet, anyway.

  The partiers out back cheer and clap. Another song starts up and everyone sings along. It’s another song from days gone by. The songs from the new days have yet to be written. I don’t want to say it, but even if someone somewhere finds a cure for the rash, I don’t think the old world will ever return. In the thirteen months since the outbreak of the rash, I’ve seen the collapse of the old world—and I don’t see it ever returning.

  The song outside ends. The cheers aren’t as loud as they were for the first song. When the applause stops, someone speaks. He starts with a greeting to the crowd, and the crowd mumbles one back to him. I can’t completely pick up what he says, but he reminds me of a guy I saw on one of the cable channels on the far end of the programming guide. He’s not exactly preaching, but he sounds a lot like the guy I saw proselytizing.

  I decide it is time for me to get off the daybed. The people I’ve met have already threatened to shoot me, even before they drugged me. There is no doubt in my mind that there was something more than artificial flavoring in the lemonade Aubrey gave me. It is not a safe environment for me in the house the boys have brought me to, so I have to leave.

  My legs are sore from the hike that afternoon. They are also a little rubbery. I put my feet on the dusty wood floor, but it doesn’t feel like there is anything below them. I’ve got pins and needles in my legs all the way down to my toes. I’m afraid there might be someone in the house, so I don’t stamp them. Instead, I pinch my legs in various spots, trying to wake them up. I don’t know how much time I have before Aubrey or Matt returns to check on me.

  I’m assuming it will be one of the boys. It could be anyone. I hope it’s not Auntie Alice or the bearded man who called me Sunshine. Watching Auntie Alice beat Matt with the spine of her book freaked me out. And the bearded guy was just downright freaky.

  When I stand up, my head feels like it’s going to explode. I take a couple of steps and knock into the pole lamp. It clinks against the window. The bulb must be old because no sooner does it hit the glass then there is a flare and a pop. The bulb goes out. I don’t have time to consider what that might mean. All I can concentrate on is getting out of the room and then the house.

  There doesn’t appear to be anyone in the house. Also missing from where I last saw it is my hiking pack. That means no tent, no supplies, and, worst of all, no wrist rocket. This, above all else, upsets me the most. I’ve gotten good at using it. I prefer it over guns and crossbows and knives. Even if I ran out of pellets, there are projectiles all around me. Rocks, screws, nails: the world is my arsenal.

  I go back down the narrow hall, my hands on either wall. It is narrower than I remember, but then again, I was carried down it last time. There’s wainscoting. The upper half of the walls are painted a muted, mustard yellow. Framed photographs hang on the walls. I catch a glimpse of the family that used to live in the house.

  I basically spill out of the hall. My hands flail for the wooden banister of the staircase. I have to stop for a minute, catch my breath, clear my head. I look back over my shoulder at the dark sunroom. The hall is ridiculously short, but it felt a mile long just now. I want my legs to carry me out of here. I look at the door and I tell myself it’s as short a trip down the porch, across the walk, and to the gate as it was going down the sunroom’s hall.

  When I get to the door, I think of my hiking pack. It’s a crazy thought, but I’ve named it Baby, after all, and I don’t feel right about leaving it behind. I don’t have the luxury of searching for any of my belongings. The wrist rocket. The hand axe. The tent. I’d hate to be out on the road without those items. Maybe I can rebuild my war chest. Maybe I can’t.

  Something inside me is telling me I need to get out of the house.

  I look over my shoulder at the kitchen door. It’s closed. No light spills out under the door.

  I am forgetting there is an iron gate out front with a row of spear tips running along the top of the entire fence. When we arrived, there was no lock on the gate, but that could be different now that it is night and everyone is in the compound. All I can do is go out and hope for the best.

  But it’s the worst possible scenario. The gate is chained and padlocked. I look over my shoulder. No one is following me. I put my hands on two of the spear’s tips, hook my foot into the lower railing to get a boost, and my heart sinks. I am in no condition to attempt a climb over the fence. I lose my footing and the tips of the fence spears will pierce me.

  The revival out behind the house continues. The man doing the speaking is in a frenzy now. He’s going on about climate changes and the end of days, about the living left behind by those who were sworn to protect. The dead are reborn. We are approaching a war with nature, and man has never toppled nature.

  A wave of dizziness sweeps over me. I fall down against the gate, leaning my head back against the metal bars. I should be careful, I think, so my head doesn’t slip between the bars. I laugh at the thought; would it be possible to have my head on the sidewalk and body in the yard? I laugh harder. I might as well go back in, wait until my head is clear and my legs remember how to support me.

  I lean forward to get up and that is when I feel something tug on my hair. I jerk my head forward again and something tugs it back. I strike the iron gate with enough force that I see tiny dots flashing around my eyes. But this also gives me some clarity.

  I smell old, moldy potatoes, wet garbage, and decay.

  A runner has a tuft of my long hair in its grasp. It is trying to latch onto me. The runner snarls and snaps its teeth, unable to get its face through the bars. I scream. My hands flail around the dewing grass, searching for a weapon to fig
ht back against the runner. The knife on my hip is gone. I have no idea where my wrist rocket is, not that it would do any good from the angle where I sit. The hand axe would come in quite handy right now, I think. It would take two, maybe three swings to hack off the runner’s hand.

  I try to remain calm. I tug forward. There is a slight give in my hair, but only for an instant. The runner’s fingers close nearer my scalp. I am bending forward when I hear an odd clicking coming from behind me. It pretty much sounds like someone dragging a stick or thin rod over the iron rungs of the fence. I’m able to maneuver myself around onto my hands and knees, and I look up into the face of the runner.

  There’s something long and dark on either side of the runner’s mouth. Two pointed appendages with scimitar shaped intervals along them open and close over the runner’s teeth. In the dark, they look like the fingers of a claw that are trying to pinch something. These black, pointy talons open and close, sliding over both rows of her teeth, wearing them down. This is what makes the clicking sound.

  “Somebody help me!” I scream. My voice raises two pitches and squeaks off at the end. I am frantic. I roll over on my back, twisting and turning and flopping, trying to break free of the latching.

  Flashlights, dozens of them, come around the house. Another handful bob and weave from the narrower side of the yard. I see shadows advance from behind the wall of lights. There are flashes of fire and the sounds of thunder as guns are fired.

  There is no life in the hand that has attached itself to my hair. I try to stand, but the corpse of the runner holds me down like an anchor. Aubrey kneels in front of me. His hands are clamped onto my shoulders as he tries to calm me, only his hands freak me out. I don’t want to be held, I don’t want to be touched.

  “Hold her still,” someone shouts. Aubrey holds me from the front. “Lay her down.”