“…and after the guns?” Aimes asks in a whisper. She is still holding my hand and I am haunted with the images of smaller hands that also needed my strength hours ago.
“My hunting cabin,” J.D. says, making his voice gentle for her. “I always keep it fully stocked for when you girls annoy the shit out of me, and I have to go shoot something.” He lets a slow, teasing smile sneak onto his face, and we are not sure if he means it as a joke or a warning. We are not asking. Smile and nod, baby. Smile and nod.
“We should be good there for a long haul.” J.D. slides off the stool, wrapping an arm around us both. “You are my girls, right?” he asks.
This is J.D.’s normal way of asking us if we are on his side. We always nod and smile like mute bobble-heads on a car’s dash. We are almost a complete sell-out to how easily we are geared to please him, but there is something comforting right now in the pure strength of his presence with so much not making sense around us. We both respond to him on a very girl level. I hate myself for it.
“Then there is nothing to worry about. We won’t let nothing happen to our girls,” he says, patting both our butts with his sentence.
I wish the others’ eyes were as reassuring as his. They only glance at us and then around at suddenly very interesting objects in the room. Only he and Lawless have the courage to keep our gaze, and we make a note of it as we look to each other with our own shared gaze.
Aimes and I gather the remaining supplies we can find from the bar, including the all-important stock of her lip-gloss, ranging in every shade of pink made, to store in bags in my car. We both change into the more sensible spare shoes we have stored in our lockers. That is if sensible is cowboy-style boots with their deep brown leather and stitched scenery. Apparently, neither of us ever thought to pack for the end of the world unless it is to involve lip-gloss loving Marlboro men. Pity, it does not.
“You boys ready?” J.D. asks, with the pump of his shotgun daring them to answer incorrectly. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.
Marxx inhales, pushing the door of the bar open silently as
J.D. pulls a table to the large windows. Lawless and Rhett are braced against the last window along the wall as Aimes and I huddle with the heavy bags behind Chapel. How do you escape a carnivorous lunch hour? Noise; lots of noise.
I can hear J.D.’s laughter as he climbs on top of the wooden table after taking a deep inhale from his cigarette and braces the shotgun against his body. The window explodes from his first shot, shattering the glass as he shoots through. The glass serves as shrapnel-like projectiles, shredding the first group sitting near it like razor wire slipping through their bodies. As Aimes screams,
J.D. just laughs louder, lost in his pure elation of the moment.
Marxx kneels to take aim at the ones standing to head towards the bar. Kneeling as he is, he is hidden as J.D. takes full stage in a play based on his insanity. With his fist wrapped in a towel from the bar, Lawless breaks the glass of the window in front of us. The glass falls like rain from the window frame, shattering like droplets as it hits the ground around us, and we follow him through the newly made exit amid J.D.’s shotgun blasts.
Risen explode around us with each of J.D.’s loud laughs. Their dark fluids from their ruined bodies brutally showering the ground as Aimes and I wedge ourselves between Lawless and Rhett. The pavement is slick and if it weren’t for the strong arms of Chapel, I would have fallen several times into the disemboweled bodies ripening under the sun’s rays.
The outhouse smell of death is everywhere. It hangs around the bodies the Risen have destroyed and it lingers from the Risen Rhett and Lawless dispatch as we escape to our vehicles. J.D. emerges from his broken window frame still targeting the Risen with his shotgun blasts. They are crowding around us now and he shows no interest in a fast escape. Marxx easily catches up to him and I watch from my car window as Marxx struggles to stay with the older man.
J.D. should run. The path has been cleared and their Harleys are waiting, but he doesn’t. He strolls casually through the carnage as he reloads. He stops to flick the ash from his cigarette as he surveys the situation and racks the pump of his shotgun.
Marxx is out of rounds, gripping his knife, he stands ready to defend J.D. as a female Risen reaches for his back. J.D. beams one of his amused smiles at Marxx, and fires the shotgun over his shoulder directly into the woman’s face. Her face is obliterated into a red rain of flesh and blood as her head explodes. He never flinches from the outburst or the recoil, keeping his smile straight as he cocks an eyebrow as if Marxx is the one with issues.
“What’s the hold up?” Rhett shouts as even his nerves are being tested by their delay.
“Just a ball check, Rhett,” J.D. calls back, stepping around Marxx with a male chuckle. Tucking the shotgun between the handlebars and the wide wind deflector of his large motorcycle, he mounts it and looks back at Marxx who is still fidgeting with his ride. “You waiting for a prom date, Marxx? Get that thing going.”
Marxx’ engine roars to life and I hear Rhett ask J.D. as Lawless and Marxx exit the lot, “Can I wait for a prom date?”
“That’s some sick shit,” J.D. says with a smirk, revving the engine of his Harley before leaving Rhett laughing behind him.
We follow behind the men on their Harleys of various shades of black and personal styles like their own versions of warhorses in my small compact. Sunglass covered eyes glance nervously around at every corner as their engines’ noise roars down the street. What they had always before considered as their calling card is now a death sentence and I refuse to look at their jury slipping up on all sides of us. Instead, I focus on Lawless’ back like a lighthouse in a storm showing me the way to safety as we are weaving around various panic-caused wrecks clogging the roads around town.
My compact scrapes through intersections filled with such aftermaths that leave me wondering if there is any safety left in the world. I know if there is, he will find it for us as I glance to the back seat in the mirror and stare at the imagine of bleeding blonde children that once held the same faith in me.
“You know, it just came to me that I really wish we had voted on Chap’s Arch Angel instead of that grinning skull they all wanted,” Aimes says.
She is sinking low in the seat beside me with her boot-clad leg braced against the dash and refusing to look out any windows. I can smell the deafening sweet smell of her gum with its extending bubble matching the pink streaks of her hair. She is a sensual combination of woman and child, which men find so seducing and endearing. They yearn for her attention and are ready to defend her hurt moods with the same hot eagerness. All of this she uses like a well-stacked hand of cards to play at her discretion to either handle them or encourage them. Today, she seems to be handling nothing.
Amelia is the name I called her when we were children. She has been my friend for as far back as I hold memories. Many years we have spent in her room talking about subjects all parents dread to discuss with their kids. Each year bringing more depth to them as we grew until nothing was sacred. Now as she sits here, trying to hide from the world, it is such a contrast to her normal mischievous self. Watching her deflating slowly before me, the weight of the day sinks into my bones.
“When did we get a vote?” I ask her, my voice sinking with my depression.
“By vote, you mean share our opinion for them all to ignore and then blame us for not speaking up when it all goes to shit?” She sighs as she says, “God, he’s right.”
“Who?” I know I will regret asking her before the question is out of my mouth.
“My dad. He’s been saying how I sound just like my mom.” And with that, the car fills with silence for the rest of the trip.
You do not pick at other’s scars. No ma’am.
Chapter 14
Apparently, we are not the only ones who thought of Lee’s place when neighbors began making breakfast out of each other. Wreckage surrounds the shop until it grows too thick for Aimes and I to ma
ke it through. We are forced to leave the car and walk the rest of the way to the store. It does not coax the warm fuzzies at all.
We carefully walk through the debris in the parking area of ransacked cars and hasty departures. Each time we pass a broken body, we fear any sudden movement from it. The sounds of the buzzing flies are already heavy in the air with the many dead who sit staring out windshields or windows as we pass. Their dead eyes are wide, and it feels as if they are watching us as we try to sneak pass them. Our once small, sleepy town is now stomach-churning, and fear tipped.
My lighthouse is waiting for us as we slip past him through the doors with the tinkling of a bell above us. The smell of him makes my palms itch with the need to touch him. My dam’s walls creak with the weight of it even as I refuse to accept it. He caresses my lower back when he passes us, acknowledging the need we are both withholding from the world. We do not look at one another as he passes. We are both too afraid to let the other see that ache and I let him join the guys in their childhood joys of guns as a bubble-gum scented breath whispers in my ear, “Kinda hot.”
“Like a wake,” I mutter back.
“Well good thing most of us are already in black then, huh?” Aimes asks with a pop of her gum, as we enter the main area of the gun shop.
J.D. is pulling one duffel bag after another from the store’s racks while shouting orders. He instructs the men of what to grab and which bag to place it in. He might as well have been a football quarterback for all the meaning the various numbers hold for me. To me, it is just row after row of handheld metal shapes with a few versions of larger sizes mixing in for good measure. I know enough from having a baby brother and watching TV which are considered shotguns, rifles, and pistols, but specifics are beyond me.
I sit on top of a glass display case as my only female partner-in- crime makes patches of fog on the glass beside me with her scent- ed breath. We watch as gun after gun is checked and packed with its coordinating ammo with feigned interest. I am sure if they found a pink one her attention would perk. Hell, mine might perk. Each man is picking up certain styles of guns and placing them into duffels of correct sizes. Lawless and Marxx are selecting metal tubes of various lengths and matching them to partnering guns with holsters of many sizes and material. They stash kits of cleaning tools in their other bag from the various areas of the long rectangular room. I watch as they all work wordlessly together, gathering up what has been appointed to each with a silent, mutual agreement.
They are so aware of each other’s movements and assignments; they never need to make eye contact or even see the other person slipping around them to avoid any blockage of paths. Like worker bees in a hive, they each go about their assigned tasks with no thought of it or need to think about it. The only difference is there is no Queen to answer here. They have a King; a King who communicates without words, but with nods and his eye contact to keep his little hive in order and on their tasks.
For a momentary flash, I see Conroy running with this wood- grained imitation rifle chasing Lilly around the cases. The men are oblivious to the two of them filling the room with child- pitched laughter as they run between and around them. I close my eyes against the sight, breathing deep to exhale their ghosts from my mind when her voice pulls me back.
“Ready for a fun question?” Aimes asks me. The glass near her is smudged with hearts and smiling faces as she looks to me. This is why we would never survive a crime scene.
“I do so love your fun questions,” I say with exaggerated interest, still watching the men in private amazement.
She flips me a middle finger and blows a kiss to me, asking, “Where do they think all those bags are going to go?”
She has a point. My compact is already full of the bags from the bar and now our bees have a growing pile before us.
“Want to go car shopping?” I ask her with a smile.
“Looting and grand theft auto? It must be Tuesday!” she says with glee, bringing the room’s attention to us.
J.D. smirks at the sound of her voice between checking a shot- gun for shells. He calls out to us as we retreat from the room, asking, “And just where do you two think you are off to?”
We both call out without thought in our normal one-minded fashion, “Disney World!” as our laughter takes us.
It feels good to laugh again as we find our response more amusing than it truly is. Stress is a many-sided coin. Right now, it is shiny and bright but before we know it, it will return to its normal dark-sided self. It will rob us of the humor we find now, replacing it with whatever mood swing it wants to share with us. Our Disney is depressing, and our laughter dies upon our lips as soon as we exit into the bright light of the sun. In black-clad Bibles hell is described as a tormenting place of heat, but all I feel is winter’s chill as it sneaks upon us with the change of the seasons. Cars race by in high speed escapes while past wreckage lingers from other’s attempts to do the same. Store windows are broken and spill forth their items onto the surrounding sidewalks where it is hard to tell mannequins from human remains with their blank eyes and frozen forms so equally posed. Papers are whipping through the air with each passing car, creating a snow globe effect all around us. I only pray that no one shakes our town any harder today.
We tiptoe from car-to-car, peering into each like a toxic dare. Some are a blessing while others are damning with the horrors they hold. The further we slip into the shopping areas, the more we are damned with their sights.
Still, we make good use of our shopping trip as we gather various supplies in Aimes’ ever present bag. I will never again mock her idea of purse sizes as we fill this one with what is left of the looted pharmacy, café and general stores of the square. Let the boys have their guns. We have the three C’s -- coffee, chocolate and condoms. According to Aimes, these are the main staples for any apocalyptic conflict.
We creep from each store, constantly afraid of what could be waiting for us when we leave them. Each well-formed exit allows us to be braver and relaxes the tension between us. Our comedy seeks to replace the depression that has been following us all morning. It floats around us like bubbles at a child’s party, flying higher and higher and perfect with its rainbow shades in the sun’s light. Pity it is just as fragile when it comes to a crashing halt.
The streets are as still as the moments after a murder. Even the birds have escaped, robbing us of their songs while another sound fills in the void they leave. They always come with a soft whisper. They use just the faintest of caresses to tickle your senses. They want you to stumble upon them. They want to creep up on you just when you are feeling that the danger is depleting around you. Always, just when you start to trust the sun again, the Risen find you.
There will always be sounds we know to fear from birth. Sounds that can cause you to bolt awake from a sound sleep or the types of sounds that can cause you to pause in your normal day-to-day with dread. In all of my stored recordings of sounds, there has never been another that I fear as much as I fear the one surrounding us now. The thick watery sound we know to associate with a new horror is stalking us again.
I do not know if she heard the noise too or if she is just reacting to my frozen form, but her body mirrors mine as we sink behind the car from our latest attempt at shopping. Peering under the car, I see the many bent forms of Risen crowding over their latest meal. Hands pull and shred the flesh making the body twitch with movements as they dig to reach hidden sweet meats within its deep cavities. Each one of the sickening sounds draws a shudder from us both in a cocktail of fear and repulsion in a glass salt-rimmed with our tears as we watch a man being devoured right in front of us.
We kneel here watching more and more gather upon one another, reaching past to secure handfuls of what was, only moments ago, just another person trying to survive this hell. If our timing had been different, would our places have been exchanged?
Our eyes are holding an in-depth conversation as Aimes and I motion with nods with an attempt for a silent plan to f
orm. The width of our eyes showing our agreement or refusal to the ideas we are silently sharing. It will only be a matter of time before they fully destroy the body, leaving them hungry and ready for more. I do not want to become another tragedy within a tragedy-filled day. We have managed to slip almost a block away from Lee’s gun store and our security. We are too far away now for my lighthouse to show us a way to safety. Upon realizing this, their sounds seem to begin to grow by decibels in matched pace with our fears at being alone.
“Please tell me you have a plan!” Her excited whisper is more of a hiss with all of our silent planning falling to ruins.
I place my finger to my lips, glancing around for some clue out of here. I am finding myself wishing for once, I could be the follower. I am not sure how in this comical twist I keep stepping into the shoes of the leader. I, with all my fears and failures, am picked yet again to save the day. It is only noon and I have a longer list of defeats than victories. I wonder which one of our three C’s is going to save us now.
As if reading my mind, Aimes hisses again, “I do not have a condom in this bag to cover just how screwed we are!”
Something calls to me from across the street. Maybe it’s the sun, filtering through the clouds and casting a light upon her. Maybe there really is a God and he finally deciding to throw me a crumb. Could it even be the Devil, with his hidden plot line, not ready for me to take the final fall yet? Whomever, whatever, whichever it may be, I am not about to ignore the help and send a silent “thank you” to whomever is either helping or extending my life.
She is huge and intimidating for someone so used to a compact and yet at the same time welcoming, with her large retro truck- styled safety. Her windows are rolled down like a silent whispering invitation among so many doors of escape shutting before us. She does not give the Risen an inch as their gore-dripping bodies push against her. Like some beast of old, their smudges are only adding to her rugged beauty.
Dawning (The Risen Series Book 1) Page 8
