Allison Hewitt Is Trapped

by Madeleine Roux

  “Absolutely. I barely got to meet your friend Collin,” she says, giving me a sidelong glance, “but, to borrow a phrase, he seems like good people. His wife on the other hand…”

  “Ha. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  Our laughter dies down and we’re left standing in the cold, consuming night. I don’t want to look at her but there’s something in her face, something open and totally new that tells me I can trust her. It makes me wonder if she had siblings, younger siblings, people who looked up to her and depended on her for that wide-open, welcoming look. I could curl up in that look.

  “Something you wanna tell me?” she asks.

  “I just … I guess I feel stupid hanging onto sentiment. I know logically that I should just renounce this whole monogamy thing. There are new needs, you know? New parameters. We might be an endangered species. But something won’t let me move on. I keep telling myself I just need more time, that it will get easier, that I’ll stop thinking about him … but I won’t. I know that now.” There’s something nice about this, something warm and calm in Renny’s eyes that lets me know she’s been down this road before.

  “You’re right,” she says. “You won’t stop, but that doesn’t mean it won’t get easier.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Like a shiny new tube of lipstick.” It’s pure, liquid dark out, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “You ever think maybe … I mean, what if we end up being, like, the last people on earth?” I say. “Would you … you know … have a kid?”

  She readjusts her stance in the dark, resting one leg on the retaining wall I’ve been leaning against. She laughs quietly, letting out a long breath like the exhalation of a pensive drag on a cigarette. “My mom asked me that when I came out.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No, she actually asked me. Thanksgiving table, no less. She had balls, that woman, brass balls, but she forgot she was my mama, that I inherited those balls from her too. So I said, ‘No, Mother, no I would not; not now, not ever, not at the end of the world or the motherfucking beginning of it. I would not, could not on a boat, I would not could not, so fuck. You.’ ”

  “I bet that went over well.”

  “She didn’t talk to me for a month after that,” Renny says, chuckling. “But now? Fuck it, I’d probably do it, I mean if it was getting real dire. I told my mom no because I knew why she was asking me. She wanted me to admit that deep down inside I was still a good little Christian straight girl. But I’m not and she needed to understand that.”

  “Don’t do it,” I tell her. “Even if you’re the last woman on earth.”

  “You serious?”

  “Absolutely. I mean, what’s the point? If this is what you’re giving a child,” I say, gesturing to the soggy field littered with oozing corpses. “If this is what they have to look forward to, you’re better off just sticking to who you are, to what you believe. It’s more valuable, I think, in the end.”

  It’s one of those bad nights, an uncomfortable, lonely night and I wish I hadn’t let that whiskey get away. I wish I could hear a bit of Mary Poppins whistled in the dark.

  COMMENTS

  C in C says:

  November 2, 2009 at 7:09 pm

  The privilege and the heartache of marriage is the picture it presents to the outside world. If a star explodes there’s a little more violence in the universe but there’s a little more beauty too, right? There’s more to say but I can’t think what, and so instead I’ll let someone smarter, someone wiser than I say what I mean to say: “There were times when he could not read the face he had studied so long and when this lonely girl was a greater mystery to him than any woman of the world with a ring of satellites to help her.” Perhaps a goodbye is in order. I think instead I’ll simply say: See you later.

  Allison says:

  November 2, 2009 at 8:03 pm

  That sounds ominous, C. My battery’s low and I have to go beg Nanette to use their back-up generator so I’ll keep this short. Don’t give up. I know I sound grouchy, but don’t give up, never stop fighting.

  Isaac says:

  November 2, 2009 at 8:58 pm

  Allison knows a thing or two about hopelessness. Listen to her and to me, don’t give up man. Fight the good fight.

  November 4, 2009—In Dubious Battle

  “Renny.”

  “Uhmf, hm?”

  “Renny!”

  “What is it?”

  “Get up. Get up quickly and quietly. We’ve got company.”

  It’s early, the pink fringes of dawn just beginning to cluster around the distant tree line. My mind, I can say with certainty, is hazy. Julian is waiting outside the tent when I step out and he’s alternately rubbing his bicep to stay warm and flinching from the pain of upsetting his injured arm. There are dark bags beneath his blue-green eyes. His face is pale, bloodless. There aren’t many extra supplies at the encampment so we’ve had to make due with sweatshirts and jeans to keep us warm and little else.

  “I know I shouldn’t take it personally, but it’s a little disconcerting that they didn’t notice I was gone until an entire day later,” he says. He flinches again as his left hand bumps the sling.

  “Stop doing that,” I say. “You look ridiculous. And keep it down.”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot colder in the grave.”

  Maria woke us up just moments ago, reporting back from her watch that she had seen movement over at the Territorials camp, headlights, the rumble of engines gunning to life. She wasn’t sure what it all meant but I had a pretty good idea. I suspected they might retaliate after we stole Julian back, but part of me hoped they would just ignore it. They didn’t seem to be too attached to him, considering they were prepared to let him bleed to death in a closet.

  Renny emerges from the tent, her springy hair held back by a thick black headband. There are bags under her eyes but she’s already wide awake, determined. Dapper trots out of the tent and sits with his muzzle resting against my knee. Renny hands me my ax; lately we’ve been sharing it. “What do we do about Ted?”

  “I think we should move him into the car,” I say, adjusting the shoulder strap of my laptop bag.

  “But the car is shot to shit.”

  “Just for safekeeping,” I reply. “Until we have a clear getaway. If he’s lying down in the back they won’t be able to see him. They’ll check the tents first if anything.”

  “Julian, go help the others pack up. Renny and I can move Ted to the car.” I go to him, pull him a few feet away from Renny and take a tight hold on his healthy arm. “Can I ask you a very personal question?”

  “Of course,” he says. “Jesus, Allison, you can ask me anything.”

  “Do you know what a Molotov cocktail is and could you please make some?”

  “I … Roughly … I guess?”

  “Good, great!” I shout. “Get to it.”

  Before Julian can answer, Renny and I duck into the tent. Ted is there, his sweatshirt bulging at the shoulder where the heavy bandages are wrapped. He’s pale and sweating, but alive. We carefully move him into a sitting position and then lift, taking care not to put a strain on his shoulder. It’s slow going. The natural place to lift someone up is their shoulder joint, but instead I have to sort of grab him around the middle and heave upward. In the middle of this, he begins to wake up.

  “Mmf?” he asks, his head lolling against Renny’s shoulder.

  “We’re just moving you to a safer spot,” I tell him, smoothing back the damp hair on his forehead, adjusting his skewed glasses. It’s easier with him awake, since he can at least use his legs to help us along. He’s still dozing as we sandwich him between us and guide him away from the tents. We head for the sedan parked on the edge of the camp. There’s a fine, chilly mist clinging to the ground and the yellow grass crunches from the frost as we hobble along together in stride. Every once in a while Ted grunts with discomfort and we adjust to put l
ess pressure on his injury.

  There’s still a trickle of blood on the ground marking the path we took getting Ted out of the car. The backseat is a complete mess, littered with glass and stained with Ted’s blood on the seats and the floor. At least the shattered windows have allowed it to air out a bit. Renny stands staring at it all with the door open, her mouth twisted into a scowl of revulsion.

  “It’s just for a little while and he’s sleeping anyway.”

  She nods, reaching in to sweep the glass off the seat and onto the floor. Together, we slowly help Ted into the backseat, prodding him this way and that until he’s lying down with his knees curled beneath him. He grumbles incoherently, scrunching up his nose as he squirms around trying to get comfortable.

  “For the record, I don’t think we should mention this to him when he wakes up,” Renny says.

  “Yeah. Agreed.”

  When we reach the tents, Maria, Nanette and Dobbs are busy loading up their supplies into his pickup. Julian is nowhere to be found. A plan has begun to form in my mind, and I’m hoping we have a chance of getting most of these people to safety. The Territorials have guns and vehicles, it’s true, but they’ll rely on those things, perhaps too much.

  “Maria!” I call, jogging up to them. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  She and I peel off from the group. It looks like they’ve almost managed to pack up most of the makeshift tents and supplies. They didn’t have much to begin with, and it’s obvious that this was never meant to be a permanent solution. “I know this is going to sound like a weird question, but can you think of any place nearby that might be … well … infested? Somewhere there might be a lot of undead, maybe a store or a warehouse or something?”

  “I … Well … I’m not really sure,” she says, giving me a suspicious look. “But I suppose you might try the movie theater. The police sealed it off that first night and I haven’t seen anything or anyone come out of there. So unless someone tried to get in—”

  “Perfect. Where is it?”

  “Just there,” she says, pointing west toward the Walmart. “It’s on the other side down the frontage road, maybe half a mile away.”

  “Thank you. Tell the others to hurry.”

  “Could … could I ask why?”

  “Why what?” I ask.

  “Why would you want to know that? Where the infested are?”

  “Oh. That’s where we’re headed.”

  Maria watches me walk away, her mouth hanging open a little. After a moment she turns and goes back to the others, wringing her hands and glancing over her shoulder at me every second or two. I feel, oddly enough, close to Collin for a second. I know I’m channeling him from a distance, mimicking his cool, collected demeanor. I only wish there was time to miss him.

  It’s probably not the best plan I’ve ever had, but a healthy dose of chaos might be just what we need to unbalance the Territorials and swing things in our favor. Between the undead, my pistol and the Molotov cocktails, we might have just enough confusion.

  Renny finds me before I can track down Julian. She’s out of breath, bending over to rest her palms on her knees as she pants. “Allison, they’re … they’re coming. We’re out of time.”

  I follow her back to Dobbs and his truck. The pickup is heavily weighed down, the flatbed filled to overflowing with wood, tarps, buckets and odds and ends. There are a few tools in the very bottom and what looks like a lunch box and a workman’s kit. Probably useless. Dobbs, Nanette and Maria stand around in a semicircle as I pull down the back of the truck and open up the workman’s kit. Dapper tries to jump into the flatbed but I shove him out of the way.

  “What are you doing? We have to go!” Nanette is screaming, shaking me by the shoulders. Renny pulls her off and tries to calm her down, but Nanette bats her away.

  “You don’t get it! They’ll kill us!”

  “Just calm down,” I mutter, raking through the three-inch-deep mess of screws, nails, scraps of sandpaper and empty glass jars. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s cold. I can feel the sweat gathering at my temples. I grab a handful of screws and shove them at Renny. “When Julian gets back, tell him to toss a few of these in the cocktails.”

  “In the what?”

  “Just … You’ll see when he gets here.”

  They’re all staring at me, waiting, waiting for me to save them. Ha, ha, Julian, I want to scream, see what happens when no one is tough? When no one takes the lead? They’re paralyzed, frozen into inaction by what they think is an insurmountable danger. But it’s not too late, not insurmountable, not yet …

  “Back!”

  It’s Julian. His good arm is full of bottles sloshing gasoline down his sleeve as he limps at top speed toward us. He’s cheerful as can be as he gently bends to line up the jars and bottles on the tailgate. Other people have gathered at the truck, people staying in the camp that I never had a chance to meet. There’s a husband and wife with a little Hispanic girl wedged between them, and there are two teenage boys. I don’t know their names and I’ve only seen glimpses of them as they went from tent to tent. “One, two, three, four, five … six!” Julian says, stepping back from his work, glancing around at us as if to say “Didn’t I do just great?”

  “Here,” Renny says. “Allison said to add these.”

  I hear the screws dropping into the gasoline as I finally, finally come across something useful.

  “Anyone have a pair of gloves?” I call, my fingers dusting off the top of a big, plastic bottle. I tip it up to face me and the faded label is almost completely gone but I can just make out the small, black print.

  NAOH

  I think of Ted reciting chemical compounds as he goes to sleep, that sad, boyish whisper in the dark. I think of Ted curled up in the back of a chewed-up sedan, lying on his own crusted bloodstains and I know without a doubt that this is the way forward. This little bottle is the key.

  “There should be a pair of work gloves in the kit,” Dobbs says, shouldering his way through the others. “There,” he says, pointing at a floppy pair of men’s work gloves. They’re heavy duty and leather, but way too big for my hands.

  “Too big,” I say. “Anyone else?”

  I pull out the plastic bottle and set it aside. The lunch box reeks of moldy apples and rotting cheese but I brave the smell long enough to yank out a used plastic lunch bag. There’s a tug on the back of my sweatshirt and I look down to see the little girl holding a pair of fleecy black gloves up to my nose. I pull them on and, while they’re a bit snug, they fit okay. There are black cats and candy corns embroidered onto the backs.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yes. My sister doesn’t need them anymore.” She scuttles back to the man and woman, ducking behind them at once. They don’t look like her biological parents, but it doesn’t matter. She goes back to them, both hands hooking behind their knees.

  “What do you need us to do?” Dobbs asks, taking off his Stetson and throwing it into the back of the truck.

  “Get everyone together and—”

  The gunfire starts, quietly at first, but building fast as the Territorials get closer. They’re spraying a barrage of bullets at the camp. We huddle in close together, taking shelter behind the pickup and its towering cargo. The little girl puts both hands over her eyes.

  “That way!” I point, trying to talk over the noise. “Go as fast as you can, take cover as you go.”

  “But our things!” Nanette protests, gesturing toward the pickup truck.

  “You can get them later, right now you need to get as far away from here as you can.”

  Dobbs takes Maria by the hand and crouches, leading the group away from the truck, using it as a barrier. The front of the truck starts to take a heavy beating from the bullets. Julian and Renny kneel down beside me.

  “Light those up,” I shout, “and throw them all.”

  The three of us take turns with Julian’s Zippo, lighting the ends of the wicks (remnants of Julian’s one-legg
ed pants) before hurling the wine bottles, bean jars and, yes, Johnnie Walker over the truck. “Try to fan them out in a line!” I shout, but I’m not sure they can hear me over the sound of igniting fire and booming rifles. Julian reeks of gasoline and I make him stay back as we light up the second to last cocktail and fling it over our heads. Crouching low, I peek around the edge of the flatbed in time to see one of the Territorial’s Humvees explode, the cocktail hitting it square on the hood. I hear a sharp hiss as the pickup truck’s front tires are shot out.

  “Go with the others,” I say to Renny, grabbing her by the forearm. “And take Dapper.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “What about Ted?”

  “They won’t find him, he’s not even in their line of sight. Please, go. I can handle this.”

  Renny takes one look at the fuzzy black gloves, the ax and the pistol and rolls her eyes before grabbing Dapper by the collar. “If you get your ass killed I’m burying you in those.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We shake hands and she goes. Julian is staring at me with his serious face, challenging me to send him away.

  “I’m not going to ask you to leave, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” I tell him.

  “Well I won’t go—Oh! Oh.”

  “There’s one cocktail left and I might need you to cover my retreat. Just in case things go wrong.”

  I pull off my laptop bag and shove it under his good arm. “Hold onto that. Don’t let anything happen to it. And this too.” I check the clip and then hand him the pistol. Two shots left—not many, but maybe enough. I grab my ax and nod toward the plastic bottle on the tailgate.

  “Put on the work gloves and fill that sandwich baggy about halfway with powder,” I say.

  Julian picks up the bottle and glances at the label, his eyes growing wide. “Lye? What the fuck are you gonna do with this?”

  “Just sit tight. I know what I’m doing.” This is not, strictly speaking, the truth but there must be something trustworthy about my face at that moment, because Julian sits back, crouching against the tailgate. “I’ll be right back, okay?”