The End Games

by T. Michael Martin

  A few times, Muscle Guy (“Henry,” he said, “but I prefer Hank. So call me Hank. Question—”) tried to cut in, but the woman, who introduced herself as Bobbie Louise, gently hushed him.

  When Michael had sat down next to Patrick, he’d whisper-asked where Mom was, now that they’d “got to The End.”

  “We’ll find out, Bub,” Michael told him.

  Patrick nodded. “Is this the big party?” he asked. And when Michael shook his head, Patrick replied, “Oh, okay.” It came out sounding like, Oh, thank crap. ’Cause that would have been lame.

  If there were other sections in the Safe Zone, Michael supposed it could be a couple hours before he found Mom. He allowed himself to draw up the image he’d had in his mind these past few weeks, the image of The End: him holding Patrick’s hand as they walked across a bright Safe Zone room, spotting Mom in a crowd, her looking up at him, proud and so, so happy.

  As Michael finally finished his hash browns (wonderfully greasy), Hank said, “Question,” for the fifth time. “How’s the situation out there?”

  Michael set down his orange juice slowly. He traced his finger over the sweat on the side of his glass, struggling for an honest answer.

  “Super cold,” Patrick suggested to Michael quietly.

  The old woman laughed. Patrick looked up at her with a surprised delight, but then almost seemed to catch himself. He looked back to Michael, doing his songless humming thing.

  “And there’s not many humans,” Michael said. “Have you guys noticed that there have been more of those, uh, Things, sort of gathering, moving in bigger groups?”

  “Have we friggin’ ever,” Hank nodded. His voice was clipped, though. Was the deepness of his voice changing a little every time he spoke, like he was trying to sound more manly, or something? “They were easy to deal with the first couple weeks. Scattered. Then it was almost like they started . . . coordinating, I dunno. Maybe it’s just that they were looking for people, and they were getting better at finding us, so they all started attacking around the same time. But it’s weird.

  “Anyway, been out there long, man? What’s your time line?” Hank pulled a tattered spiral-bound notebook from his pocket, uncapped a pen.

  Michael’s eyes flicked to the notebook, his stomach tightening a little. He suddenly felt wary of speaking about their time in the outside world and confusing Bub. “Since Halloween,” he replied.

  Hank, who had been leaning across the table, fell back in his chair. “You’ve been out there the whole goddamn time?”

  Patrick, halfway through a piece of bacon, froze, eyes popping, like he had just heard someone fart. Protectiveness and a little anger blossomed hotly in Michael’s stomach.

  “Hey, let’s keep it PG in here,” Michael said amiably.

  Hank snorted a laugh like Michael was making a joke. But when Michael didn’t return the laugh, Hank stared, as if trying to gauge if Michael was serious about protecting Bub from cuss words in a world where there were, y’know, monsters trying to eat him.

  Finally, Hank said, “Uh, whatever, dude, sure.” Michael nodded, friendly . . . although he realized that Hank—good-looking in a hard kind of way; striped track pants, cigarette breath—would probably not have been his friend in the world Before. And not just because, ha-ha, I don’t technically “have friends.”

  “I think what Hank is trying to say is, what were y’all up to the whole daggum time, Michael?”

  The girl leaned forward on her elbows across the table, her eyebrows raised in an open, friendly expression. Her hair, short and choppy, was so darkly red that it was almost black. She wore wire-rim glasses and a bright blue hoodie over an EPCOT T-shirt.

  “Looking for the Safe Zone, is all,” Michael replied. He impressed himself by being able to look the girl in the eye for almost an entire second.

  “It took you three weeks?” Hank scoffed, as if taking so long to battle lots of dead-slash-insane people was just ridiculous.

  Michael’s shoulders pinched back. He felt a surprising twinge that he didn’t like, an ugly defensiveness.

  “Yeah, well,” he said, making his voice steady, “we were in my stepdad’s cabin in the middle of nowhere for the first week. There were a few Things out there in the woods. Nothing me and my gun couldn’t handle.”

  Michael paused, waiting for Hank to nod, maybe look impressed—something. But Hank kept quiet, just waiting for him to go on.

  Well, who cares what he thinks? Michael told himself. He still felt a little sheepish, though, as he finished. He told Hank that they’d gotten low on food in the cabin, had heard Safe Zone announcements on their car radio. But by the time they’d backtracked on the roads they’d come to the cabin on—the only country roads Michael was familiar with, and the only interstate entrance he knew how to reach—the towns were all deserted, the interstate ramp impassable because of abandoned cars and barbed-wire blockades.

  “And we had to play ‘Siphon the Gas’ a lot!” Patrick added.

  “And you made it without a fortress and a bizagillion guns. It is impressed upon me that you are impressive,” said the girl. “I’m Holly, by the way,” she informed him.

  “Patrick,” Patrick said, surprising Michael with his boldness, however small.

  She grinned, so wide it was actually a little big for her face. But yeah, wow: cute. Undeniably cute.

  “And this cabin was . . . where?” said Hank, nodding eagerly to his notepad.

  “Is it cool if I ask why you’re taking notes?”

  “Orders,” Hank said as if it should have been obvious.

  Orders from whom?

  Michael told Hank it was near a popular (if isolated) ski resort in the northern part of West Virginia. “Canaan Valley. You know it?”

  “I’m from Atlanta. No clue, champ.”

  “Sorry, slugger,” Michael said. The gently ribbing joke was for Patrick, but Holly chuckled. Hank’s pen paused; he looked confused.

  “So, you’re at the cabin,” Hank said, returning to his notes, “you leave; after a while, things get worse. And you didn’t see the army or any of the search parties until a couple days ago, just before you were rescued. Right?”

  Patrick looked up at Michael.

  Hank thinks I saw a search party. He must have talked with that captain from last night, Michael instantly understood. And giving an answer to Hank’s question would only spiral to more questions about the soldiers: questions that would require more lies.

  And man, I’m done with lying.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Just, do you mind a bunch if I ask a couple things?” Michael said. He really was burning with the questions that had been pulsing on the edge of his thoughts since . . . well, since he saw that first dead Bellow shambling toward him on Halloween. Except, he wanted to be careful about what he said around Bub.

  “Where were you guys when you first got . . . pulled into this?” Michael asked. Hank began to speak up, but Michael, worried he might swing the subject back to the soldiers, added: “Bobbie?”

  Bobbie’s calm, thin smile did not falter, but he thought he saw something painful pass behind her eyes.

  “Well. I don’t know if it’s my favorite story,” she said. “But they do say a person never forgets where she was when poor President Kennedy was shot. Or when those planes hit the Towers. So I guess I’ll remember it forever, whether I want to or don’t.

  “I was with my husband, Jack. We were playing rummy on our airplane trays. Things had gotten so bad near our home in Tennessee; the government began emergency flights to Safe Zones. One hundred and ten souls on board our flight to Charleston. Everyone on the flight was supposed to be well; the pilot snuck his wife on, and she wasn’t.” Quickly, Bobbie said, “And you, Henry?”

  Hank sighed through his nose, as if he was bursting with other things he’d rather discuss. “In Atlanta. School. Came here when the action started. Our dad”—he indicated himself and Holly—“came up to help right after the Zeds were first on the news. Like a lot o
f people did. He brought us.”

  Michael felt a momentary—and immediately embarrassing—happiness, finding out that the guy Holly was sitting next to was her sibling.

  “So there are . . . uh, Zeds, you called them, in Atlanta, too? And Tennessee?”

  “There weren’t at first. It seemed to start somewhere in West Virginia, actually. Now? Who knows, man. Government shut down internet and phones in the Safe Zones almost right after the Zones were set up.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause the only way they could keep things under control—make everyone come to the Zone—was to control what people knew about what was going on,” Holly said. “‘Information is power,’ etc. It kept people calm. That was a good day or two, ha-ha.”

  There was something in her tone Michael couldn’t quite read. It sure wasn’t amusement, though.

  “We don’t even friggin’ know for total-sure where the first case was,” Hank said. “Some places were worse than others—it was bad here—but there was so much shit going down at first—” Hank’s gaze flicked to Patrick, who had begun blushing. “Err, so much poop-poop going down.”

  “That’s a technical term,” Holly told Patrick. It drew a little laugh from Bub, and Michael felt a warmth of gratitude.

  “They got theories,” Hank continued. “Maybe a virus, a natural sort of deal. All they know for sure is it’s some kind of brain infection. The captain thinks it’s an attack from Iran, ’cause of the war. Whatever it is, thank Christ for the soldiers.”

  “Yes indeed,” Bobbie said in soft, earnest agreement.

  Then Hank picked up his pen again, sitting forward eagerly. “And then there’s the people you met, right, who think it’s the end-times, that the Zeds are the ones God chose to bring back to life to take to Heaven first. The Rapture, they call themselves. Friggin’ rednecks actually fought the soldiers when the army tried to bring them to the Safe Zone.”

  “Wow, huh,” Michael said, patting Bub on the knee, “some people just don’t play by the rules. So hey, I probably should get going. Is there, like, a list of where the other people here are?”

  Michael felt Patrick’s energy change, felt his shyness changing to a pure excitement. Michael’s belly twisted, and he wanted, right then, to get out of this room and just get Mom now.

  Then Hank laughed bitterly.

  “Other people?” Holly said. A dread growing on her face.

  “In the Safe Zone. We’re going to go find our mom.”

  “If she’s not here, she’s not here,” said Hank.

  Michael continued grinning, trying to grasp the punch line of that weird sentence.

  “We’re . . . Michael, aside from Captain Jopek, sweetie, this is the population of this town. Us,” said Bobbie. “Since a week ago, sweetie.” She looked at him with pity.

  “You mean . . . except for all the soldiers,” Michael replied.

  “There’s a soldier. Like you said, man, Zeds are moving around in packs now. They overran the perimeters around the city a week ago,” Hank said.

  “I thought—no, hold up. You said ‘thank God for the soldiers.’”

  “All the other soldiers evacuated, along with everybody else. Everybody else who wasn’t massacred, anyway. They went east, to another Safe Zone in Richmond. I meant thank God for the soldiers you saw.”

  It was as if Michael had been trotting along at a leisurely pace and then forced, at the shout of an unseen pistol, to explode into a full-out dash. Automatically, but with a little panic, he tried to find his blood—but he only felt their eyes, heavy with expectation and questions.

  They think I really saw soldiers, Michael thought. Patrick told them I did, and they don’t realize that I just said that because of The Game. They think I saw Real. Frakking. Soldiers.

  Michael remembered the window in the Senate, and the courtyard outside: the empty courtyard, the quiet halls. How had he not figured it out before? How the hell had he not figured it out?

  Stupid—God, so stupid. You idiot, don’t you know: you’re not allowed to let yourself be happy, not until you know it’s The End.

  And he felt Patrick’s eyes, with confusion of a different kind: Why’re you nervous, Michael?

  “Yeah, no,” Michael finally said. “You’re right; thank crap for them.”

  “Thank Something,” Bobbie laughed shakily.

  “We knew somebody’d come back,” Hank said nonchalantly, though Michael could tell he was enormously relieved. “The captain’s been on the radio with some units that are returning for us, but the last couple days the transmission’s been bad because of the mountains. So how far away were the soldiers? When do you think they’ll get here?”

  Michael paused, calculating the days. The soldiers who were here have been gone for a week. They’ll be back, but . . . but maybe the Bellows all moving together are making the trip back take longer. That’s all. But the real solders will be back.

  “Ah, soon for sure,” he said calmly. “Next couple days. Right, Bub? Then, party time, right?”

  Relief, on everyone’s face then, and in their eyes. Relief—especially in Patrick’s.

  Michael felt slightly guilty. He wasn’t quite lying when he said that soldiers would be here soon, if the captain was saying the same thing. And I can just explain myself to them later, that I was saying it for Bub. It’ll be fine—

  And then those relieved gazes traveled over his shoulder.

  Something tilted. The change in the room was invisible, but as real as one side of a brass scale tipping with a violent clang.

  The steady clocking of combat boots. The tinny, atonal music of a ring of keys.

  Michael looked over his shoulder and saw the man from the balloon.

  “Well, ain’t it my crew,” said Captain Jopek. “How’s doin’s, folks?”

  The captain had looked a hundred moon-blasted feet tall last night. Even up close, he’d been all eerie speed and seamless shadow: a sniper from the stars. Here and now, walking through the upturned chairs and the overhead light, the captain was a little more human, comprehensible. But man, still, he made Michael feel tiny.

  Silence from the table. For some reason, it felt tense to Michael—though that was probably just because of his nervousness from a moment ago.

  The captain took off the helmet he’d had cocked back on his head, took a loud sip from a Red Cross coffee mug.

  “Henry, you sleep okay, or you still wakin’ yourself up with your own farts?”

  Hank blushed, though he didn’t look displeased. “Just, ah—just when Bobbie makes chili,” he said, grinning.

  The captain didn’t smile back, though. Instead, sipping his coffee, he watched Michael. Seemed to do it for a long time. So long that Michael got the idea that the captain was waiting for him to speak, and Michael began to stand up, to thank him for last night, when Captain Jopek suddenly said, “Looks like we got our new lady friends fed.” He spoke with a slight hill-country drawl that seemed to ghost in and out; it would fade in, jab at every couple words. Looks like we got our new lady friends fed.

  “I’m a boy,” Patrick pointed out.

  “That a fact? Well, boy, this captain’s just happy he could help y’all get to his humble home.”

  Michael wasn’t sure he looked that happy.

  The captain set his mug down loudly, glided toward them, boot heels clocking, key ring tanging. Michael, still awkwardly hunched, wasn’t sure whether to stand or to sit back again. He settled on sitting.

  “Get enough to eat?” the captain asked.

  “Yeah. Amazing,” Michael said.

  “So, Captain,” said Hank. He stood up, so that it was like he was with the captain on one level, and everyone else on another. “We have some new reconnaissance. The new ladies, heh-heh, were telling us—”

  “I heard that, I sure did!” The captain sat down on a tabletop across from them, crossing his arms. After a second, Hank sat back down, looking sheepish. “Pretty excitin’. Boys comin’ back to town! Huh, Bobbi
e?” he said, yanking her into the conversation without looking to her. “Ain’t that excitin’?”

  “Oh. Yes, absolutely.”

  “Miss Bobbie, you’re sweet as tea,” said the captain, “but you sure oughtta sound more excited, ladylove, ’cause this is the news. The big one. We oughtta put this on a banner and drag it behind a plane.”

  Bobbie tugged at her gold wedding band, fidgeting.

  “Whelp, I reckon it’s time to do us another field trip. Hank, you get that gear primed.”

  “On it.” Hank nodded. And okay, it was official: he was absolutely trying to make his voice deeper. “When do you want to leave, sir?”

  “How about oh-now-hundred?”

  Hank snorted laughter.

  “I think I’m gonna chat first, though,” the captain said, “with my new buddies here.”

  He cleared his throat.

  And nodded toward the door, indicating that everyone else should exit the cafeteria. As Holly and Hank and Bobbie left, Patrick whispered to Michael, excited, “Like a zoo field trip?”

  Michael shrugged to quiet Patrick.

  Follow your breath, Michael thought. Feel your blood. Because the captain was probably going to ask questions about the soldiers. Which would not have been a big deal—Michael could just take the captain aside and tell him he’d white-lied. . . . But sitting there, looking up at the captain’s odd, unreadable eyes, Michael couldn’t help but think of last night. And the way the captain had been so quick to strike him in the head.

  “So, hey,” Michael said at last, “I have to say, thank you so much for last night.”

  “Got pretty good accommodations compared to what you’re used to, I reckon. Glad I could get you some clothes, too—hope you weren’t attached to the old ones; I had to check you for bites before I let you into my Capitol. We’re a little low on food and meds, maybe. But of course, with them soldiers comin’, sounds like that won’t be a problem soon, right?”

  That smile again: all teeth, no eyes. Captain Jopek uncrossed his arms, lay thick, scarred hands on the table. Relaxed, comfortable with the quiet: that’s how it looked. So why did his waiting feel like a prodding finger looking for a loose board?