by Ryan Husk
“Still, brother, we got the insulin, do we really need antibiotics, too?”
Edward never took his eyes off Kevin. “You’ve got more insulin boxes in the back, I’ll wager. And not the refrigerated kind, either, I know those are useless after twenty-four hours. I want the non-refrigerated kind, you savvy? And I want amoxicillin, Z-Paks, the premium shit with blue labels, let’s go.”
“You’re not going to shoot me.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But take a look at my friend Gordon here and his face, and then ask him how he got that shiner. You think I’m in a playing mood here, Kevin? I’m not. I’m the brother o’ that guy that came in here with his baseball bat, and the second cousin o’ the guy who shoved you around and stole your medicines. Understand what I’m saying?”
Kevin nodded. “You’re enjoying this. This is the kind of thing people like you have been waiting for, and you’re enjoying it.”
“Are the Braves happy when they finally make the World Series?” he posed to him, checking his watch: 11:34 AM. “Why’s it so bad that something a guy’s been preparing and training for finally happens? Stop stalling, Kevin. Let’s move.”
Kevin shook his head exasperatedly, more like a guy fed up with his brother’s usual bullshit than a man experiencing panic at the end of the world. “You want my wallet, too?” he said sardonically. “I’ve got credit cards, some mints, condoms.”
Guy’s got some chutzpah. “No,” he chuckled. “You can keep all that. If I’m right, money won’t mean much in about three weeks anyway.” He waved the gun, and the manager led them to the back room. On the way, Edward spotted a first-aid kit hanging undisturbed on the wall. He reached out, snatched it, and just looked Gordon in the eye when he gave a quizzical look.
They stepped into the back room. Kevin went first, but Edward drew even with the entrance and stopped. Gordon bumped into him from behind. “What is it?”
“Just wait,” Edward said. Perplexed, Kevin turned and looked at both of them. “Hear that?”
“Hear what?”
* * *
The pumps were jam-packed. Wade and his boys had little trouble squeezing between the cars on the road to get to the gas station. They pulled up to the pumps amid honks and shouts of “Fuck you!” from angry motorists, witnessing the unfairness as the guys with bikes could so easily jump ahead in line. One of the motorists, a black-tied businessman with expensive sunglasses on his head, leapt out of his Mazda and started towards Wade and the others, until Marshall stepped off his H-D1 custom and stood at his full six-foot-seven, and gave the guy a single dismissive look—dismissive looks sometimes being the most intimidating, Wade always thought. The businessman backed away and slipped inside his Mazda, muttering curses to himself.
“Let’s move with the quickness, boys,” Wade commanded, not bothering to remove his helmet.
Jeb had lit a cigarette and looked like he was about to say something, but then he paused, and gave a listen. Everyone on the street paused as the low, low grumble approached. At first, it seemed to be coming from the east, or maybe the south. Then, it came from everywhere. The approaching monster grew in anger, until all at once two F-16s appeared out of nowhere and rocketed from south to north. They weren’t but about a hundred yards off the ground. Must’ve finished their reconnaissance, Wade thought. Flying awful low, though.
To Margery, Marshall said, “Babe, go inside, grab some energy bars an’ chips.”
“I’m on it,” she said, hopping off the hog and jogging inside.
“Hey!” someone cried. Another motorist, this one brave from inside his sedan, the passenger side window slightly rolled down. “Hey, jerk! You can’t just cut in line like that!”
“I think we can,” Jeb said, laughing. “I think we just did. Let me check.” He turned and looked at his hog. “Yep.”
“Go fuck yourself, you fuckin’ weekend warriors!”
Jeb took the cig out of his mouth and grabbed his crotch. “I got a big one here you can suck, friend.”
They argued back and forth while Wade watched and pumped gas into his Road King Classic. A loud siren approached. The ambulance had no hope of getting through quickly. Few cars had the room to get out of its way. Others seemed like they were reluctant. The ambulance driver blew his horn loud enough that the argument between Jeb and his mortal enemy in the sedan was drowned out.
Next came a fire truck. Its loud, blaring horn was also drowning out all other horns at the intersection. If the ambulance wasn’t going to get through, the fire truck had no hope at all. Wade scanned the traffic, the heads of the people getting out of their cars, the parking lot of the CVS across the street. He spotted the black Wrangler, saw it parked directly in front of the doors. He wondered what could be taking Edward so long in there, and if he would have any further need of Edward and his group once they were all fueled up, or if Edward would have need of them. He’s a man that listens to his needs, Wade surmised.
The world seemed to dim as he was thinking this. Wade looked up at the sky. The Face was thankfully concealed by cloud. The light was getting more and more muted, and whether they were conscious of it or not, everyone on the roads and trapped at the intersection obviously noticed it. It’s getting under their skin, even if they don’t know it. Cattle trapped in a barn, and the flames are starting to lick higher. They’ll kill each other in the stampede.
The mushroom cloud, the largest one because of its proximity, called to him out of his periphery. It was now no longer a true mushroom, but more of a spreading blanket and a fan, with loose tendrils of gray-black smoke slowly crawling across the sky.
Wade’s mind went back to the moment he’d seen the flash. His wife’s Road King’s handlebars had needed a little tightening before he went to meet up with Jeb and the others. It was silly to still look after her things, but in a way it was important, the way that it was important to maintain photo albums and try to keep them all in sequential order. That’s what he told people who asked, and even those that gave him funny looks when he took the Allen wrench to her old bike. The handlebars never seemed quite tight enough, though. No matter how many times he went through the steps: centering the handlebars in the stem clamp, tightening the bolts around the handlebars, double-checking the alignment of the handlebars—the same steps every time, and every time they seemed to rattle.
In that moment, in that window of time, the most onerous task in Wade Winchester’s life had been deciding whether or not he ought to buy a whole new set of handlebars.
Guess I’ll bite the bullet and buy a new set, he had decided as he tried and failed to tighten them again. That’s what she needs. She’ll be fit to ride again if I can get her a new set. Convinced, he’d sighed and wiped his hands with a rag and headed out. No sooner had he mounted his own Classic than his cellphone twittered. It was Jeb, telling him they were going to rendezvous at J. Christopher’s like they always did, have some brunch, then head out on the road. “It’s a goddam beautiful day for a ride, Boss,” his oldest road buddy had told him.
“Language, Jeb,” he’d said. It was an old habit, one he indulged for her. His wife had never liked bad language. Again, like the photo albums, like keeping her Road King running.
And, as was his habit, Jeb had acknowledged him but hadn’t taken the advice to heart. “Yeah, sorry. Hey, if we get there before you, you want the same thing as usual? We could order for ya. Eggs Benedict, right?”
“Yeah, Eggs Benedict sounds g—”
A light, like a blooming sheet of white cloth. It was nothing like he had seen in movies or had read about in books. The flash of a bomb like that was a quick thing, over in an instant. From his distance, it was only bright enough to make him squint. Then, the light had become a cascading thing that bathed the sky a moment later, with a few clouds pushing out like a rolling tide before evaporating, leaving only the zenith of the mushroom.
In that instant, Wade knew. He’d always suspected it was coming, so it didn’t shock him. Not even a little bit.
It didn’t even horrify him or make him weep for the hundreds of thousands that must’ve surely died in that instant. Why? he asked himself presently. The answer was immediately clear. When Wade was young, his grandmother had suffered a stroke, and never really woke up from it. For the last ten years of her life, she was speaking out of her mind, not really knowing where she was or who she was talking to. When she finally died, Wade never shed a tear. Part of him felt guilty for it, but another part of him had understood why. His grandmother had been dying for a long time; indeed, she was truly dead when she had the stroke, the last decade of her life was just the final death throes. In the same way, Wade had been expecting this nightmare for a long time. It was inevitable, whether it happened in his lifetime or five hundred years from now. Too many bombs on the planet, too many countries feeling skittish, too many monkeys with their hands in the cookie jar. It was going to happen. It was always going to happen.
But that thing in the sky…nobody had counted on that.
Wade looked up, silently willing the Face to never appear again. Maybe it’ll be, like, some kind of strange group psychosis, some mass hallucination phenomenon, kind of like hysterical dancing. He remembered reading about that as a kid. Between the 14th and 17th century, there had been sporadic reports of whole groups of people suddenly breaking out into dance. Whole towns would claim to be “overcome with joy” and start screaming at the sky for no reason and dancing and removing their clothes. No explanation had ever been given, but the people afflicted had spoken in weird languages afterwards, and claimed to hear music when none was playing.
Maybe that’s all this is. Instead of hysterical dancing, it’s a massive acid trip, or something the government put in the water to test on us.
Watching the mushroom cloud expand, watching it come into undeniable existence, had brought on another strange emotion: world-reshaping fear. He’d watched the initial explosion while sitting on his bike. Then, as now, he knew. It’s good Linda never saw this.
There was another, more troubling thought that threatened to enter Wade’s mind, peeking in and out. She wouldn’t have understood this. She wouldn’t have survived. With her still here, I would be weaker. I would be weaker having her around.
That was an uncomfortable thought. For so long, he had wished she was still here. Now, for the first time ever, he was glad she was dead.
“Yo, Wade!” shouted Margery. He turned just in time to catch the Nutri-Grain bar that she was tossing at him. “Got some stuff for the road. Jeb an’ Marshall are ready to roll. You?” She had two plastic bags filled with potato chips, Gatorades, Snickers bars, granola bars, and…
“Is that a pint o’ Jack?” he called.
“Yep.” Margery smiled, offered no other explanation. “Let’s roll, boys!” Another one enjoying the end o’ the fucking world. Or, maybe not enjoying it, but just “going with it,” as they say. Rolling with the punches, or suffering them gladly? Oh, well. Brain tumor was gonna kill Margery one day, anyway. He supposed she might just be loving this more than anyone.
He looked back at the collapsing mushroom. “Yeah,” he said, pulling down his sunglasses and turning back to the CVS. Edward and Gordon were finally stepping out. It was perfect timing, because the ambulance had finally passed and the fire truck had finally stopped trying to get through, and the pump had just finished filling his tank. It charged his gas card, and by reflex he snatched the receipt that ticketed out a second later. Some habits never die, even when the world’s exploding all around you. He saddled up, and, though he never knew it, he also kissed his wedding ring for good luck before revving up his bike and shooting across to the pharmacy.
* * *
Gordon was freaking out when he stepped out of the CVS. He looked to his right in a panic, watching Wade and his pals come grumbling over by the jeep.
“Get what you need?” shouted Wade.
Gordon hopped in the passenger seat. His heart was beating a mile a minute. He had just been an accessory to a robbery, and held the evidence in his hands: two baskets filled with boxes and pill bottles. Edward hadn’t even looked nervous as he ordered the CVS manager about, demanding to see his stock in the back where they kept more insulin supplies. “C’mon, c’mon, lisinopril, I know you have it,” Edward had said to Kevin. “Let’s go, let’s go!” They had accrued a total of ten boxes of fast-acting insulin, enough, in Edward’s opinion, to “last her about a month or two.”
“And after that?” Gordon had said.
Edward hadn’t responded.
Gordon was panting hard, fighting to get his excitement back at a manageable level. He glanced in the back seat at Janet, who clutched the dog’s mane. She looked doe-eyed at the moment, uncertain of what her new adult caretakers intended to do next. Poor thing, she doesn’t know if all of this is good or bad. Probably feels guilty that we made this stop for her. Another thought crept in, one that troubled Gordon. Maybe I ought to have left her on the side of the road. He felt like a right ass at this point, having tried to be a hero amid such turmoil, only to have placed her with adults who knew little about her.
“We got enough,” Edward informed the biker, looking rather pleased with himself. “You boys know of any other shortcuts?”
“Where ya headed to, ultimately?” asked Wade. To Gordon, it was obvious they had reached a negotiation phase in their relationship. No one knew exactly where to go, or what to do. Their group had assembled out of desperation, and because one group sought answers from the others. Gordon understood that it was natural for people that came together under such circumstances to find it difficult to abruptly part ways. They had a connection now, tenuous as it was.
“Blue Ridge,” Edward said. “We’re heading to Alabama first. Plan to cut through some of the roads and back into North Georgia. Going to the Cohutta Wilderness.”
“What’s up there?”
“Old family property. A cabin with lots of food and supplies…” Edward trailed off, shrugging. A look came over him, and Gordon thought he had just seen Edward catching himself from revealing too much. He’s accepted Janet as needing his help, maybe even me by some weird extension—maybe he sees us now as a package deal—but he’s not sure about these four bikers yet.
But Edward let it go; he didn’t invite them, but he didn’t proscribe them, either. Gordon could only assume that it was some base tribal understanding: a favor in exchange for a favor.
Marshall, the behemoth man, hollered out, “There’s a patch o’ highway not yet built, it’s maybe a mile up. The whole area’s been cordoned off for two months while they build it an’ lay foundation, pour concrete an’ set rebar—” He was cut off by a loud pealing. A Prius had come zooming around the intersection, the driver obviously thinking he’d found an angle through, but he slammed on his brakes too late and smashed into the side of a Stratus. Screams, curses, and more horns. “Anyways,” said Marshall, unfettered, “it’s a muddy stretch that leads to Harper Road, but I reckon yer jeep can handle that. You ever take that think muddin’?”
Muddin’, Gordon thought. Jesus.
Edward shook his head. “Not really, but I’ve been off-roading and this thing can take it. You fellas lead the way.”
Margery shouted, “How are y’all fixed for food in there?”
Gordon leaned over Edward’s lap and shouted, “I’m a little hungry, but I know Janet here’s not eaten. All we picked up was medicine inside.” Margery reached into a bag and tossed a Gatorade to Edward through the window, then a can of Coke, and then some Doritos and a couple of granola bars. “Thanks,” Gordon said, handing some back to Janet, who was noticeably relieved. She was hungry all this time, but just now realized it. She didn’t even think to ask.
Wade and the others took the lead, and the jeep trundled right after. Gordon set the Gatorade and chips between his legs. Edward looked at him. “Go ahead, take a bite, drink something, you look like you need it.”
“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly. But a few seconds later, he opened the Gato
rade anyway and took a sip. “Shit!” he exclaimed, nearly choking on his drink. Edward had shot right across the road, passing into the oncoming (if slow-moving) traffic and then went halfway up onto the sidewalk. There were people running and walking fast…and a woman with a twin baby stroller. “Watch out for the fucking—”
“I see them,” said Edward, slowing down and honking his horn. The mother moved quickly, her lips moving, no doubt issuing language that her twins were thankfully too young to understand. “Get outta the way, bitch,” he muttered as he straddled the sidewalk.
“Jesus, man, slow it down!”
“Relax, Gord-O, I wasn’t gonna run her over.”
“She didn’t know that.”
“That’s right, she didn’t. You saw her moving, didn’t you?”
Gordon fumed, but bit his tongue. God help me, of all the people I could’ve hit and bummed a ride with, of all the people I could’ve carjacked…
Every car they zoomed past either honked at them, shot them a bird, or gave Edward a look that said they were this close to taking on his devil-may-care attitude and slamming their cars into his.
They came to the road construction that Marshall had mentioned, and the bikers cut straight across it. Gordon saw other drivers watching them, and figured a few of those commuters would be wondering why on earth they were going that way. None of them know yet, he thought. They don’t know that there’s no way through on the usual roads. They don’t know that they’re part of the problem, jamming up the main arteries, and that they’re going to have to find the roads less traveled.
There were orange cones that Edward drove straight over. The area around where the road was being built had been cleared, and was treeless, and muddy as hell. The jeep found traction, though it slipped and slid. It tore around piles of dirt and red Georgia clay.
