by J. Thorn
"Because I'm not the fool who left the rope at home." Harold folded his arms. "Get a move on. It's getting dark."
Lewis did some grumbling and handed over a silvery automatic to Mark, who held it at arm's length and thumbed the safety on and off. "Thanks, Lewis."
"We'll be back in a jiff," Harold said. "You just stay in that gas station till then."
The truck door slammed. They pulled out, spitting gravel from the tires. Mark flicked the pistol's barrel towards the dark station. "Well, come on."
"You should let me go," Walt said.
"So you can kill us?"
"I was angry. I didn't mean it."
"Come on," Mark said. "I don't want to have to shoot you."
"You don't have to shoot me." Walt started across the asphalt. "You don't have to help your dad hang me. You don't have to do anything anymore. You never did. It's just more obvious now."
Mark held the door open, then locked it behind them, staring out on the empty highway and the trees going black in the dusk. Inside, the shelves and counters stood grayly in the gloom. Mark flipped on a flashlight and set it light-up on the counter.
"Now we wait."
Walt lowered himself carefully to the floor. "Both my parents died."
"So'd my brother."
"I lost my girlfriend, too. I was going to marry her. She died in our bed. One of the first."
Mark wiped his nose, glanced out the door.
"The bed was covered in blood," Walt said. "I mean, I could have wrung out the sheets. She was all I wanted. She was so beautiful—her face wasn't striking like a model, but there was a light in it you could get lost in. When she died, I wanted to, too." He lowered his head, squinting at a stain on his jeans. "I still do. When I'm walking down the highway, I hope a BMW will zoom by and smear me across the lanes. I hope when I'm up in the hills I stumble off a cliff and crack my skull like a big pink egg. You know what I see? A hole. A great black hole in everything. My girlfriend wanted to try to make it in LA. When she died, I decided to walk there, but no matter where I go that hole's still there."
"Sounds like hanging you would be a favor."
He nodded ploddingly. "But when I think of my ghost after this, I think he would be angry."
Mark tilted his head. "You believe in ghosts?"
"No. Or in justice or fairness or any of that. But I know I don't want to die being hanged over nothing."
Mark set the pistol on the counter with a soft metal click. "Are you hungry?"
"Let me go."
"If I do that, my dad—"
"Tell him I untied myself. That I jumped you and stole your gun. He'll blame Lewis."
Mark stared out across the empty lot. Crickets whirred in the night.
Walt strained his ears for the rumble of the truck. He gave it a couple minutes before pushing again. "Do you think I should die?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
The boy grimaced. "Promise you won't hurt anyone."
Walt looked him in the eye. "I promise. I'll be long gone before they're back."
Mark circled behind Walt, knelt, tugged ropes. Fibers chafed Walt's wrists. Dusk deepened beyond the window. He'd be out his bags, all his stuff. He thought no particular thoughts, just a dull red roar that thudded in his ears like tribal drums.
Mark fussed and fiddled for minutes. Finally, the ropes fell away. Walt rubbed his wrists like any prisoner—not because they hurt, but more as if to reassure himself they were no longer bound.
"Thank you." He rose, eyes locked with Mark, and took the pistol from the counter, then two packets of peanuts from the ransacked shelves. Headlights peeped down the highway. Walt smiled. He stepped outside and pressed his back against the pumps.
Mark stood in the gloom of the doorway. "What are you doing?"
"It's too late to run."
The headlights poured over the parking lot. The truck ground to a halt. Harold cut the engine and jumped into the twilight, laughing; Lewis got out from the other side, rope in hand. Walt clicked off the safety of the pistol.
"Dad!" Mark screamed.
Harold reached into the truck. Walt rolled out from behind the pumps. He pulled the trigger, shattering glass over Harold, the crash of the shot crackling between the hills. Harold came up behind the door and fired a wild shot from the rifle. Walt strode forward, pumping shots into the door. Harold swore, wrenched open the bolt, jammed another round home. Walt fired again and the man's head snapped back. Blood gleamed black in the moonlight.
Lewis had frozen on the other side of the truck, knees bent, shoulder stooped. "Don't shoot, man. I'm unarmed."
Walt smiled and circled around the truck. "What's that in your hands?"
The man glanced down as if he'd forgotten the weight of the rope coiled in his arms. He met Walt's eyes, mouth slack. "It was Harold's idea. He just wanted to keep us safe."
With his left hand, Walt pointed to the corpse hanging from the street light. With his right, he pointed the pistol at Lewis' flannel-covered chest and squeezed off three shots.
The rope thumped the pavement. So did Lewis' body. His hands twitched on his chest, tendons so tight they looked like they'd tear through the backs of his hands. He gurgled wetly and went limp.
Mark moaned from beside the pumps. Walt whirled on him.
"You promised," Mark said.
Walt sighted down the silver weapon. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He flipped on the safety and stuck the gun in his waistband. He took the rifle from Harold's hands. His bags waited for him in the back of the truck. He slung them over his shoulders and started down the dark road.
"Where are you going?" Mark hollered. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Whatever you want," Walt said. "It doesn't matter now."
He walked for an hour, waiting for headlights to rush up behind him and Mark to leap out rifle in hand, but he hadn't seen another car by the time he dropped off the shoulder into the woods to eat some peanuts and unroll his sleeping bag. He felt calmer than a pond, as if he'd spent the day reading Zen or napping on the beach. He examined the pistol until he figured out how to eject the clip, then thumbed out the shells. Three left. The rifle had a catch beneath the bolt to release the magazine, which had four rounds of its own.
He didn't think seven shots would hold him all the way to LA.
Before he went to sleep, he resolved to pick up more ammo and find something that didn't require any. A big steel sword. Possibly an axe. Something that would never jam or misfire or run dry.
He smashed in the window of a house in the woods and ate cold SpaghettiOs. He added cans and a can opener to his duffel along with a bag of dried bananas, a jar of cashews, and two new knives to replace the ones the men had stolen from him. Water bottles grew dusty in the garage. He drank two, used another to shave his beard, and added five more to his backpack. With no bodies in the beds, he decided to stay there overnight.
In theory, he'd go thirty miles a day. That had been his original goal. It hadn't seemed farfetched: eight hours a day at a fairly easy pace of four miles per hour. That would leave him another eight or so hours a day to forage, rest, and nap. Los Angeles was around 2800 miles by road from New York—rounding up for diversions, call it an even 3000—thirty miles a day, a hundred days of walking. Even at a 20% margin of error to account for injuries, detours, and the like, he'd planned to enter the city limits in four months, which was amazing when you thought about it. In April, he'd been swimming in the Atlantic; by August, he could be paddling around the Pacific.
In practice, he got blisters. He got tired. Sometimes he had to spend hours combing hills for a stream and then precious minutes more gathering kindling to boil his water. Four miles per hour was doable on a flat road, but when the asphalt sloped up or he had to hike through woods and fields to avoid the towns, hampered by his swollen heels and toes, he found himself reduced to half that pace. Counting by highway mileposts, he managed ten to twenty miles a day.
Along
the road, flies clouded bodies lying gape-mouthed in cars. He drank when he could find it, which was often. Dogs barked behind dark windows. Their owners made no appearance. Except, perhaps, when the dogs licked their blood-dirty muzzles.
His mind was often numb. When it wasn't, he experienced his hurt from a remove, as if he were isolated outside the fence of a park while inside a man struck a goat with a cane until it bleated and bled. And sometimes it all hit him with a shock as icy and total as when he'd jumped into the Upper Bay. Then he lost track of his own steps, mumbling to himself, ears ringing in the silence, a black stricture tightening around his neck, fingers tingling with the cold of it all. And if his thoughts were trite—indifference was universal; everyone would die some day; no one would get what they want—that was just a reflection of the world's own triteness, an existence where dogs ate their dead owners only to starve in the locked house that once kept them safe.
He walked on.
A cough laid him up in a white house in an Ohio suburb. He waited for flecks of blood to show up in his phlegm or to seep from the corners of his eyes, but after three days he felt well enough to keep moving. In a quiet parking lot, hundreds of VW Bugs had been arranged in a snaking conga line. The black, quartzlike Sears Tower thrust from the skyline miles beyond. On the plains, he saw men in chains dragging plows and hacking hoes into the soil while two men with guns watched from chairs at the end of the field. Walt ducked into a ditch on the far side of the road and crawled forward until his jeans clung to the rubbed-raw skin of his knees. An hour later, he almost went back for them, but it was getting late and he was tired.
When he passed in and out of the cities, he looted houses for canned food and dry goods; many had already been broken into, windows shattered over living rooms, kitchens littered with spilled coffee beans and moldering bread, but enough had gone untouched to keep him alive, if bored, on a diet of all the unwanted things families donated to canned food drives: beans, carrot soup, cream of mushroom. Outside the cities, he walked across dusty farms, plucking carrots from the dirt and tomatoes and soybeans from the vine. He'd picked up some ammo back in the green hills of eastern Pennsylvania—most houses he'd broken into there had a gun collection somewhere—and sometimes when he was off in the woods and fields he shot at squirrels and rabbits. Once in a while he even hit them. He ate these roasted on sticks over fires lit with lighters, inured to the greasiness of the meat and the occasional tendon or small bone missed by his clumsy butchery.
His feet grew calluses so thick he couldn't feel it when he poked them with a knife. He slept in the grass and listened to the wind. It couldn't tell him where it had been, but it seemed to carry other secrets, a wistful sadness of the constant traveler that sometimes exploded into the righteous gales of the wronged. Birds twittered, too, and screamed at each other or themselves to hear anything besides the rustling wind. He heard cars no more than once a day; once, a single-engine plane buzzed like a fly beyond a window; another time, the chug of a lawnmower blatted from somewhere in a wooded village.
During a muggy and miserably rainy summer day in Missouri, he left the road, shoes squelching, and climbed a low rise to change his socks; they wore harder when they were wet and he was down to three pairs. Rain lashed the forest canopy, thumping his hat with thick drops. He stripped off his soaked socks, rubbed his feet, drank some water.
Down the way, the road bent around the hill. Some two hundred yards along, four cars had been parked lengthwise across the lanes.
He put on clean socks and his shoes and picked up his pistol and the rifle. He left his bags beside a broad-leafed maple and crept downhill, keeping a screen of trees between himself and the road. He knelt beside a trunk and fitted his eye to the scope of the rifle. The cars were silent, empty. Beyond them, a man climbed up the road's shoulder, rifle in hand, and stared down the way Walt had come from.
Walt backed away and crept a couple hundred yards through the woods along the road, now grateful for the rain that pattered the leaves and obscured their crackles. The road wound around the hill, hiding him from the man with the gun; he cut across and circled back, peering between the dripping branches. On the slope above the cars, smoke stagnated in the soupy air. Two men sat with their backs to a tree, cigarettes in hand, rifles propped beside them.
Walt didn't need a pile of skulls to know what they were. He lined his crosshairs on a forehead, waited for his breathing to slow, and squeezed the trigger. The scope jolted as the stock shoved into his shoulder. The man's head snapped into the tree and rebounded forward. He slumped, drooping between his sprawled legs. His partner grabbed his rifle and bounced to his feet, sweeping the trees. Walt's shot took him through the right lung. As he lay gasping in the damp brown leaves, Walt aimed, waited, and shot him through the head.
Discarded wallets littered the ground beneath the tree. The men wore gold rings on most of their fingers, heavy watches on their wrists. The rain washed the blood down their bodies.
The old masters said if you met another Buddha on the road, you should kill him. All reality is an illusion: if you think you've found the incarnation of enlightenment, destroy that illusion on the spot. But the real world is real. Therefore, if you meet a bandit on the road, you should kill him. Anyone who seeks to make a bad world worse is a monster and an alien. You don't hope they'll come around for the same reason you don't hope the weeds in your garden will realize the error of their ways and convert to a life of cornhood. To lock these men up or threaten them would be no more effective than imprisoning the milkweed or shouting at the kudzu.
So the universal tendency is to entropy and chaos. Most of the universe is cold, airless, bereft. The first step to reversal is to eliminate anything aligned with prevailing universal philosophy.
Walt flung the bandits' rifles into the woods, stole their food, went back for his bags, and moved on. He slept when he was tired. He ate when he was hungry. He walked when he could. There were few days now he didn't cover twenty miles. Once he went two days without water, lips cracked and skin burning, until he left the road for the wooded hills and scouted the draws until he found a creek. For the most part, water wasn't a worry—he gorged himself when it was plentiful, rationed when it wasn't, checked any gas stations and houses and canals he found.
At times the walk grew hypnotic, the slow unspooling of a land he'd never seen. Cornfields, the morning gold of the Mississippi, and town after town after town. Other times, the outer world was lost to him. Instead he swam in a dim memory-sea of Vanessa's face, of the taste of falafel and vindaloo and pierogies with sour cream, and of his dream, now pointless, of writing literature so powerful it could lift hearts and inspire readers to right wrongs. Frequently, he walked miles with no memory of what he'd just seen.
13
"No," Mia said when she tried the shower, a clean reach of dark slate and cool tan travertine. The faucet stood silent. "Noooooooo!"
"I don't think we should count on that coming back any time soon."
Mia sunk to her knees, laughing ruefully. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."
"There's fog here like every day. Look how green it is compared to Redondo."
"Do we have tarps? Buckets?"
They found several of both in a shed bracketed by lemon trees in the back of the yard. They tied the tarps to the bottom of the deck, funneling the lower ends to waiting buckets. That night, stirred by the silence, Raymond wandered the house, candle in hand, and found a radio. They sat in the couch in near darkness and twiddled the dial. Static ruled the FM side from start to finish. On the AM, a garbled voice quoted scripture. A few ticks on, a sleepy-sounding kid DJed sets of electronic music. Mia got up and swung her arms in the Monkey. After sitting through a set, Raymond dialed on. A springy man's voice rose from the static.
"...steer clear, it's Bakersfield, where armed gangs are reported to be enslaving other survivors and putting them to work on the farms. As if you needed one more reason to stay out of Bakersfield! The tourism board is going to
have problems this year. In the meantime, for the first time in its history, Los Angeles has stopped burning. As the I-5 remains permanently clogged, visitors are advised to arrive via foot, boat, or flying machine. This has been your daily travel report with WTFN news."
"He's going to get in trouble," Mia said. "Callsigns that start with W are reserved for stations east of the Rockies."
"Where's he getting his info? This could be crucial if we ever go anywhere."
"Where are we going to go? Our summer home?"
"What if I decide to steal a yacht for our anniversary?" He shrugged. "It would sure be useful to know the South Pacific's swarming with pirates before I sail you to Tahiti."
The tarps worked just well enough to keep them alive. They drove back to Home Depot, loaded the car with dozens of orange mixing buckets which they left in the yard to gather rain. At the old house in Redondo, they found a burnt-out shell with black stakes rising from the foundation. Somehow, the basement had survived; amongst ashes and old books, Raymond rooted out a camp shower to hang from the deck alongside the tarps. They gathered up loose sticks and branches and leaves and hauled them in a stolen truck to their new house, where they stashed the kindling in the shed in the back yard and used it to barbecue hot dogs and boil water for rice and potatoes and drinking.
Cilantro sprouted beside the green onions and mint. They sowed artichokes, potatoes, tomatoes. Mia suggested restricting candles to the back of the house where they couldn't be seen through the front windows. Cars crept by a couple times a week. From a sporting goods store with smashed-in display cases, they took two more pistols, a .308 with a scope, heavy boxes of ammunition, a bow and scores of arrows. They wrote lists of goods and made weekly trips to the grocers and pharmacies. After a month, most of the shops had been emptied out. Meat rotted in black piles. They listened to Josh Jones' hourly show on WTFN every night, heard about the growing colony in Portland, where hundreds of survivors policed a few square blocks from looters and gangs, and the fires that reduced Phoenix to a charred wasteland. Jones relayed theories on where the Panhandler had come from: accidentally released from the CDC labs, stolen from Russian facilities by Middle Eastern terrorists, a naturally lethal mutation of the flu.
