by D. S. Black
She continued down 17. To the right, a sign read ENTERING MURRELS INLET. The green trees swayed with the wind on either side of the road. The road was straight and even. Up ahead the sight of a CVS came into view. Candy slowed to a crawl. She needed antibiotics. That's why she was out here. Jack might be dead already, for all she knew. But, if she should save his life; she would by any means necessary. Then she saw the people. At first she thought they had to be zombies, but zombies don't run like that.
A man, woman, and kids were running inside the store. Candy crept the Humvee a little closer, parking it against the curb. They hadn't seen her. She exited, closing the door softly, and stepped over the concrete curb onto hot grass, her boots making shallow imprints. She saw no sign of the dead—a small miracle if there ever was one.
Ahead, steam rose off the black asphalt parking lot creating a foggy mist. Her boots clicked, clicked, clicked against the ground. Her right hand gripped the revolver’s handle. Her left arm rose and her hand lowered the hat’s brim, barely showing her piercing eyes. Her face was hard and stern. Her girls were gone. Her Jody was gone. Her Papa was gone. The rights and the wrongs of the Old World no longer existed for her. Kill or be killed; that’s all she thought as she moved in on the family.
Her legs moved precisely with her heels touching the ground with each step. Her right hand rested over her revolver while she approached the couple now coming out of the store, holding what looked like a bag of medicine. “What’s in the bag?”
A woman clad in a torn dress with blood stained yellow pokadots stared at her with a fearful glance. “Get over here girls! Who are you?” the woman said. Two girls grasped the backs of their mother’s legs and clung tightly, their frail bodies quivering.
“Listen now. We don’t have anything for you.” Said a man as he stepped in front of his family. “I’ll shoot you, I mean it!” He said.
Candy stared at the man’s pulsating brown eyes; he was scared. The barrel of his gun trembled with the involuntary shaking of his hand.
“Don’t do that.” Candy said.
“Do what?”
“Please just leave us alone! Why are you looking at us like that?”
The two girls peered around their parents. Their small knees trembled. “Please don’t hurt us lady.”
Candy didn’t move. Her breathing was rhythmic and smooth; and her stare never left the man pointing the gun.
The old woman spoke, “Just listen, would ya? We need that medicine for our little girl. She’s got an infection. Couldn’t you help us? Aren’t there any good left in ya? You don’t look so bad… we could help each other.”
“Antibiotics?” Candy asked. Her face was a grim shadow under the brim of her hat.
“You can’t have it! We might can spare a little food. But, we can’t…”
Candy drew her revolver, aimed for the husband’s forehead, and squeezed the trigger. His brains flew backwards, and covered the two little girls and their mother. The mother’s face cringed while she pushed her kids behind her. “My god, please! NOOOO—”
The next shot split the woman’s head in two. The two little girls held each other, and crawled into a fetal position and hid their faces. Candy’s footsteps marched slowly up to them and her shadow overcast their shuddering bodies. They were crying, shivering with fear. It was raining again; a thick shower falling from the dark, gray sky.
Two more shots rang out and the little girls went limp; their dead bodies two colorful lumps against the black asphalt.
In the car a child screeched loudly. Candy reached down and picked up the bag of medicine. The black asphalt creaked underneath her boots; the rain now poured out of the heavens hard and strong; lightning crackled and lit the eastern sky. She moved with precise steps, heel to toe, heel to toe, and then hovered over the back seat window. Her shadow moved up the side of the car, darkening the screaming infant. The squeals became louder as she pulled the door open; the door ajar alarm dinged and dinged. Pictures of laughing children, and smiling parents were tacked against the back of the front seat’s head rest. The infant continued to bellow.
Beside the baby was another small bag of medicine. Candy picked it up and put it into the larger bag she held; and then stared down at the child. The baby’s cheeks were red, and tears streamed down like rain. It wiggled helplessly in the baby seat. Candy’s lip snarled, she picked up a pillow resting beside the child’s seat, and pressed it over the baby’s face and pushed down hard.
A few moments later the child stopped crying. She removed the pillow, revealing a blue, dead infantile face. She removed a short knife clipped to her leather belt. She stared at the blade; a break in the dark clouds beamed a ray of sun which reflected back into Candy’s eyes. She laid the bag on the seat, and with her left hand she pushed the dead child’s head to the side, and pushed the blade into the soft temple. She picked up the bag, and left the door open and the door ajar alarm chimed as she walked over to the dead man and removed his revolver from his death grip. She opened the chamber and smiled while she spun six empty holes.
6
Back on the road, driving back towards the swamp, the sky dark and menacing, a light rain still pouring against the windshield, and a cool wet breeze flowing through her hair, Candy stared blankly. In the back voices whispered “Mama why? Why did you kill those people?” Candy’s body jumped and she looked over her shoulder with a fast jerk. Nothing. She continued to drive.
“You didn’t have to do that Mama.” Candy slammed her foot on the break, bringing the Humvee to a screeching halt. Her bosom heaved while she closed her eyes. “It isn’t real.”
“Mama look!”
Candy opened her eyes and stared at her two little girls in the rear view mirror. She blinked. Then blinked again. But they still sat there, staring back at her. A foggy mist enveloped their bodies, and they were transparent, with parts of the back seat showing through. “You’re not real.” She said.
“You didn’t have to kill that baby. Why’d you do it? Mama, can’t you hear us?” The girls spoke in unison, like one voice. “Don’t look scared momma. We can help you.”
Candy stared forward and pressed the pedal down softly. The Hummer crept slowly down highway 17. A soft humming came from the back seat. Candy’s eyes began dripping.
“You remember that song mama? You loved it.”
“I do remember. I remember baby. Is this real? Can this be real?” Candy spoke with a cracked voice and let her tears fall. “Are you really there?” But she knew they were. She knew this wasn't a dream; this wasn't a hallucination. All those stories of paranormal sightings were true after all. She felt a cold shiver run up her spine.
“Why did you kill those people Mama?”
“I…had…to. Jack needs the medicine. If I don’t save Jack…” she burst into more tears. She knew she didn’t have to kill them. Why had she done it? Who was she now? Just another murderer in a murderous world?
“You don’t always have to kill mama. You can just kill sometimes. Not everyone needs to die.”
She did not respond. An opening in the sky poured late afternoon sunlight into Candy’s eyes. The storm was passing, heading east over the Atlantic. She lowered the eye shade and focused her eyes forward.
She felt like a monster. A disgusting, rabid animal. She’d killed an infant. Two girls no older than her girls had been. These thoughts would never leave her; would darken every future triumph. Why hadn’t she done something else? Why did she have to kill them? Had her mind really slipped this far into insanity? If so, could she come back? Could she regain some semblance of mental stability?
“Don’t worry mama! We will keep you on track!” The two girls slapped their palms together in celebration. “We’ll make sure only the bad guys die.”
“My babies. This ain’t possible.”
The girls began humming that soft melody again, a song for the dead. Candy’s eyes softened and her pulse slowed. Her grip on the steering wheel relaxed. Her breathing slowed to a steady
rhythmic pace.
Candy spoke flatly, “Everything is OK now.”
(murderer!)
“Everything will be just fine.”
(babykiller!)
“I have my girls again. It is real. They are real. Everything is OK now. Everything will be just fine. I’m going to go meet Andrew now. Yes. Everything's perfectly fine now.”
She drove down highway 17, back towards the swamps. Her mind rested as the wind drifted through open windows. No music played. Only the soft hum of the girls in the back seat; their voices were hypnotic.
She finally reached the road leading back to the pontoon boat. The sun was lowering and dark shadow covered the marshes. Thick humidity still dampened the air and the smell of gas and vegetation stank.
The Humvee rumbled to a halt. She climbed out and slammed the door behind her. She walked over to the edge of the water. The boat was drug onto the edge of the marsh. Just outside the boat a red and white cooler lay. The lid was knocked open and dead fish had fallen out. Drag marks dug into the wet land. She followed the drag marks with her eyes. Her feet dipped into the soft earth as she followed the trail. The trees wrapped around her and swallowed her with dark shadows.
“Mama.”
“Yes baby?”
“This might get ugly.”
“I know baby. The whole world's ugly”.
(murderer!)
(babykiller!)
She moved through ancient cypress trees while her boots left imprints and sweat dripped from her face. The hot rotting vegetation left a gassy smell. “As long as I have you girls everything will be OK.”
(notthekidsyoukilled!)
She reached a clearing a few miles into the boggy wilderness. The trees were cut out in a circle. In the middle an old shack sat. It was made of rusted metal. Vines and green foliage covered its exterior. She lifted her leg but stopped it from moving forward. The path before her was made of whitish gray broken human bones. Thick grass and vegetation covered the rest of the yard. Gray smoke rose from a nearby grill. She took a deep breath and sprinted forward.
7
A few hours earlier
Andrew spoke softly to himself, “The whole world is on fire. The whole planet might not make it. But here I'm fishin and that’s all that matters to me today. Day by day is the way we have to live. Smile and be happy to be here catching the fish for the day.” A tear dribbled down his face. “Yep. Just another day in paradise. Another day. Papa’s gone...” He sniffed hard and shook his head. “Keep on marchin Andy. Yep. That's what I'll do Papa. Keep on fishin to. Ill catch us some good ones today.” He looked up into the blue sky. A cool wind blew against his face. The buzz of flying insects surrounded him like moving black shadowed clusters. Dark trees surrounded him. He'd found a calm section of the long river; the dark water was still around him.
He heard a rustle in the darkness. Crunching sticks. “All sorts of life still out there. Plenty of folks left in this world. Plenty of good people. Plenty of bad people. Just another day on this old blue globe.”
He'd never been known for his smarts; he wasn't dumb, but he'd never been much for reading books. He liked working with his hands. If he tried to read a book his attention just wouldn't hold.
His line caught and he reeled in a fish. He grabbed the line and hoisted the slippery creature into the boat and slapped it hard against the floor, then placed it in a red and white cooler. “That’s one. I need a lot more than one. God knows how long we have to last out in this place. What if a hurricane comes? How will I know? I guess I will just have to wait and see.” The water rippled from a sudden sharp wind. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Just fine. Everything is just fine. Everything is going to be OK.” Another fish tugged on the line and Andrew jerked it in, slapped it hard on the boat’s metal, and put it in the red and white cooler.
The breeze was warm and the humidity thick. The sounds of breaking twigs came from somewhere in the woods. He laid on his back and stretched his legs out and allowed the sun to cook his face while he listened to the rustle. His eyes stared blankly at the darkening sky. A storm was coming. Might be a nasty one.
His mind drifted.
Andrew played Left for Dead on PS4. He was never good at video games, thought he did enjoy playing them. Mostly with Randy Jackson, his sometimes best friend.
“Im motha fuckin Randy GODDAM JACKSON! BITCH!” Randy held his arms up in victory. He'd just blasted the head off a zombie. This one, however, was on the PS4; and the Fever was years away. For all these boys new, the world would remain one of video games, no sex, and a lot of weed smoke forever and always—Randy's room was a high school loser's sanctuary.
Andrew sat at a wide double screen, playing side by side. The smell of weed in the air, a small fan blowing to his left. No troubles, none at all; the world was just fine that day.
“FUCK!” Andrew said as his character's head splattered.
“You suckin donkey dick SON!” Randy like saying donkey dick. It was his favorite thing to say.
Taking on Randy Jackson's online team never worked out. Andrew played on a team of complete strangers; Randy's team played the last two years together, nearly every day—Novy, RandyJackson, DECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE, and Foulslut. Andrew had a hard time understanding how Randy could spend so much time playing with people he'd never met in real life; but Randy always referred to them as friends, not making a distinction between the virtual world and the real world.
“Break time, Drew! Soda up!” Randy said, then spoke to his teammates through a head set. “He had some of that doo doo weed. Not smelled great. That doo doo weed. Sometimes Myrtle goes dry. As far as OK mids.” Said Randy Jackson in his ever so confused white boy mimicry of Ebonics. “That nigga brought the goods though. Real shit!” Randy said. He drew a long pull and sucked weed smoke (that doo doo, yo!) and held it...then exhaled. “Damn! That's shits rockin! Like action mutha fuckin Jackson!”
Andrew sat in Randy's bedroom. Randy's bedroom was part of a brick Georgetown colonial. The room was a large square box dedicated to the corporate rap industry. Four Kicker speakers, positioned in the four corners connecting the roof and walls, vibrated Eminem. Downstairs Randy's father (Doctor Harris, MD) and his mother (Miss Homemaker) watched Anderson 360 while drinking scotch (his mother drank a thirty-dollar bottle of red wine). Randy had been home schooled most of his life. His was a smart guy, though he would never let you know it; some people had even suggested he might be retarded. Andrew liked Randy; the confused identity didn't bother Andrew at all. Randy's seemingly endless stash of weed (yeah, even that doo doo weed) proved a valuable asset, given Andrew's lack of luck with ladies; not too mention his lack of social standing within the community of Socastee High.
Randy's bright red carrot top and landscape of freckles on his face, back, and arms, only complimented a sweet uniqueness. Blues eyes glimmered around black pupils. Randy's well brushed teeth smiled. Yes, Randy was OK, just fine with Andrew.
Randy prepared the Illadelph four-foot bong—while Andrew sat, nestled in an oversized bean bag, waiting for the weed to spark. Randy crunched up a purple and golden haired green nugget with a circular metal grinder. The smell was powerful and mouthwatering when Randy opened the top, letting out the sweet aroma of crushed weed. “You up, Drew! Blast that shit! To tha fuckin moon!” Randy stuffed the weed into the bong's bowl stem, then handed it over to Andrew. The bong was quite large, and had purple and green psychedelic designs up and down the glass. Andrew placed his mouth over the opening, put the Bic lighter to the stem bowl, lit the lighter, and pulled hard. The bong gurgled as the weed smoke went through the cooling water—
“Rip that shit, yo! YEAH!” Randy loved watching his friends take a serious bong rip.
Andrew sucked an insane amount of smoke into his lungs, held it as long as he could; his faced turning red as a beat; then he blew it out in a spasmodic rumble of loud coughs.
After Randy had his hit, they two boys continued to play Left for Dead; and Andrew continued to su
ck serious donkey dick.
8
A soft shower was now raining down as Andrew continued to doze in and out of sleep. He didn't even notice when his line caught again; nor did he notice the crunching of leaves and sticks and the dark shadow moving in the woods.
In his mind's eye he stood at a car lot. Rows of shiny new Hummers, reds, whites, blues, and blacks all sat shining under the early afternoon sun. “I sure appreciate this Papa. I really do.”
“Dont mentioned it boy. Just don’t fuck up my credit by defaulting.”
Andrew pushed the wheelchair over the black asphalt until he came up to a solid black Hummer. He'd been asking his grandfather for over three months to cosign for him a new Hummer. His grandfather had never said no, but never said yes either. Finally, the old man had smiled, slapped Andrew on the shoulder, and told him to wheel him to his transport van; they were gonna go get him a new Hummer.
“This the one?” Papa asked.
“Sure is. Black beauty. I been waitin so long!”
The Hummer shined from a fresh coat of wax. The wheels hadn’t been jacked up yet, but they were still large with silver chrome caps. The interior was gray leather. “All she needs is a lift kit and she’ll be perfect.”
“We can add that in for ya son.” A man said from behind. He was wiping mustard from his chin with a cloth. He wore a solid white button up shirt with black buttons. His tie was blood red and his double chin hung over the crease of his collar. His stomach bulged out and over a brown belt and his pants were wrinkled black slacks. “Yes sir, you fellas picked a dandy alright.”
When the man walked his large behind jiggled in his black slacks like cold gelatin on hot summer’s day. But it was sweet Southern spring, just over seventy degrees with next to no humidity in the air. Even so, sweat perspired through the car dealer's shirt, leaving sweat stains around the collar and under his arms. He was bald with only a few strands remaining, that he clearly took time to comb just right multiple times every day.
