After the End: Survival (10 page)

"I sure don't envy you boys today in this wind." He addressed the crew but spoke to Jerry, the only Anglo on the crew.

"Sorry about those windows. We just couldn't help it," said Jerry.

"Didn't make any difference. I just talked to the owner," holding up his phone, "and he said he'd send a glass man over to take care of it. Hell, he's happy - I just sold the place." Grinning.

"You're kidding."

"Nope." Looking at his watch. "Thirty seven minutes work, and I pocket $6,800." Still grinning.

"You're kidding," Jerry said again.

"Oh, I've still got some paperwork to do and a few calls to make, but the financing on these folks is solid. Hard part's done." He looked at Jerry a few seconds.

"Unless you have plans to be a roofer for the next forty years or so you might think about it for yourself. The market runs hot and cold but there's always room for good salesmen. Salespeople," he said, correcting himself. "Women do good at it, end up making more money than their husbands. Need to get your real estate license. SPC has classes for it all the time." Referring to South Plains College in nearby Levelland.

A gust of wind rocked both of them.

"Don't let me keep you from your work," the man said as he staggered back to his car. "Y'all have a nice day!"

Two weeks later Jerry was enrolled in a couple of evening classes, Real Estate Law and Real Estate Principles. In just two months he was able to pass the state Real Estate Salesperson examination.

All his life, the wind and dust had played havoc with Jerry's health, his allergy symptoms relieved only by weekly shots six months out of the year. So, at age twenty one, Jerry moved one hundred twenty miles north to Amarillo. It was just as windy as the Lubbock area but nowhere near as dusty. He joined a small real estate firm, and within two years was a "Million Seller," with more than a million dollars in sales over a twelve month period. By attending evening classes, he became a licensed broker and when the firm's owner retired, Jerry bought the business. Over the years the agency prospered and grew. Jerry met an elementary school teacher at the party of a mutual friend; within a year they were married. Three years later their second daughter was born. Life was long hours at work, busy evenings at home, attending school functions as a ‘band parent’ for his older daughter and coaching his younger daughter's soccer team. Looking back, he saw that, for a few years, he had lived a life of real and total happiness. At the time it had just seemed busy. A series of little triumphs, irritations and schedules. Oh, the joys; the sweetness of his daughters' love, the pleasure he'd felt in the arms of his wife, the too few afternoons shooting baskets with the girls in the driveway. Looking back, those mundane activities of daily living become so important.

And then the Change.

His wife and youngest girl died on a Tuesday, the oldest daughter's struggle to live ended two days later. He kept waiting to develop a fever himself but it never happened. After a couple of weeks, suffering only from guilt and grief, he took a walk. And what he saw was amazing. Hundreds of vacant homes.

A buyer's market.

As he walked through the neighborhood (‘Wonderful Woflin’), he saw 4,000 square foot brick homes (‘Nestled on large landscaped corner lot welcomes entertaining inside & out. Formal dining, 2 fp, 4 bdrm, 3 ba, plus super outdoor area/pool.’) just waiting to be...used? Sold? Rented? Damn! There had to be an opportunity here!

Despite the circumstances, the analogy of trying to sell snowballs to Eskimos came to mind, and he had to smile. Or sand to an Arab. Saltwater to a sailor. Sunshine to a . . . the sound of breaking glass derailed his train of thought.

He heard men's voices, low, guttural, like the rumble of distant thunder. Then a woman's scream, piercing, driven by terror. He ran to the source of the sounds two blocks away. Sound certainly travels farther in this new world, he reflected calmly. No traffic, no television, no noisy appliances. He adjusted the speed of his running, slowing from a sprint to a fast jog, realizing he did not want to be winded when he arrived at . . . whatever. His regular noon workouts at Gold's Gym had served both to meet business associates and to stay in shape. He'd seen too many youthful athletes quickly go to fat as soon as their playing days were over.

He no longer heard the screaming, but the male voices continued. Jerry stopped at the upraised trunk of a parked car and extracted a tire tool. The voices were coming from a large two story brick colonial home. The front of the house was closed so he ran to the back. Cautiously entering the house through an open French door, he moved slowly to the living room. A few feet away, a woman's form, naked from waist down, was bent over the back of a couch. A man, tall, dark hair, plaid shirt, pants around his ankles, had mounted her from behind. Her entire body jerked to his rhythmic thrusts.

"Stop...please...stop...please...stop," she said in a quiet, matching cadence.

"Shut up, bitch," said a man's voice, out of view, just around the corner from Jerry.

Jerry drew in one deep breath.

Down, set...

He took two steps forward, pivoting to his left, swinging the tire tool into the face of a squat man with brown hair. The metal bar hit the man's face at the bridge of his nose, shattering bone and cartilage. The man dropped the baseball bat he was holding on the plush carpet and fell soundlessly on top of it. Jerry continued his rush, four steps forward, his arm pulling back by his ear, like a quarterback looking for an opening, waiting to pass. The first man had pulled away from the woman, his hands raised defensively to chest level, eyes wide and wary. His pants were still around his ankles, his erect penis pointing accusingly at Jerry.

Jerry's first downward sweep missed the man's skull, but instead hit his left shoulder, breaking the clavicle. Jerry expected the man to lunge toward him. Instead he reached over the top of the couch and grabbed a black revolver. Jerry swung again, this time striking the left side of the man's head. The sound it made was like a knuckle against a ripe watermelon, hollow and moist, and he sank to the floor, his eyes open and glazed.

Jerry stood motionless for a few seconds, then relaxed and turned to the woman, still bent over the couch.

"It's all right, you can get up now. Go ahead and get dressed."

She stood upright, covering herself with her hands, moving in a crouching run to a pair of jeans heaped in a corner. Her movements were quick and jerky. She was about thirty, brunette, medium height.

Jerry took little notice of her as she dressed but instead was looking around the living room, taking in the sunken entertainment area, featuring an open fireplace with a brass hood. The high beamed ceiling accented the feeling of spaciousness, and a massive rock wall on one side of the room projected a solid permanence.

"Nice place," Jerry said, nodding approvingly. "Is it yours?"

She shook her head rapidly. "No," she whispered.

"Well, you sure know how to pick 'em."

He looked around for another few seconds, and then picked up the revolver, spinning the cylinder. He removed one bullet and put it in his pocket, so the single empty chamber would act as a safety, and stuck the weapon in his waistband. He reached down and grabbed the collar of the half naked man, dragging him outside to the back yard behind a barn-style brick utility shed. He went back inside and pulled the squat man out by his ankles, straining some with the effort. The man moaned once as his head bounced along the ground. The two men lay side by side. Jerry pulled out the revolver and shot each man once in the forehead. Rummaging through the pockets of both men, he found a half dozen bullets, which he used to reload his pistol, carefully putting the extra shells in his shirt pocket. Inside the shed he found a two gallon red plastic gasoline container. He sprinkled the fluid liberally over both bodies and ignited them with a yellow plastic lighter. The grass here was still green, and contained the blaze to within a few feet of the rapidly charring forms. Jerry stood by protectively for a few minutes holding a rake, just to make sure the fire didn't spread. After a few minutes, careful to stay upwind of the dark smoke, he put the rake and gas container back into the shed and walked to the house.

"Helloo," he said, knocking on the open door as he entered. The woman was sitting on the couch, her arms clasping a balled up blanket.

"Say, I'm sorry about all this, those guys won't bother you anymore, OK? My name's Jerry Blakely." He waited expectantly.

"Brenda Farley," she said woodenly, after a few seconds.

"Brenda, I'm glad to meet you. If there's anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to. . . ," he paused, remembering the phone system no longer worked, ". . .let me know. Jerry Blakely." He extracted a business card from his wallet, and placed on a coffee table in front of the woman.

She nodded, and he walked out the front door.

Things are sure different, he thought, walking down the street. A lot of possibilities.

"Progress," he said aloud, surveying the large atrium of the Ambassador Hotel. Appropriate for this year's dinner. We've come a long way.

"Mayor." Brenda Farley walked up to Jerry.

"Mona Simmons is on the radio. Can she bring some of the girls over again this year?" Mona was the brothel manager.

Jerry Blakely nodded.

"Absolutely. Have her close down both houses early this evening so all of our employees can attend. And make sure Rob Westlake rotates dispatcher duties so everyone in his department can attend as well."

Brenda nodded and closed the door.

Should be a fun evening, he thought.

There were times Pete enjoyed large social gatherings. He would go from one individual to the next, finding out how each spent their time in this new world. He had trimmed his beard with a pair of scissors, washed his hair and bathed. A clean shirt, some new jeans he'd only worn maybe a dozen times, some nice leather shoes, and, the crowning touch, a belt. He appraised himself in the mirror, turning his head from side to side. This is as good as it gets, he decided. He strapped on his watch, grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

The parking lot at the Ambassador Hotel was close to full when Pete arrived at seven. Dozens of SUVs and pickups, the mayor's Lincoln, fifteen or twenty horses and about the same number of bicycles. Pete waved hello to a couple of sheriff's deputies and their spouses as he approached the entrance to the building. Through the revolving door, he was greeted by Patty White, one of the Sheriff's dispatchers. She and another woman were behind the registration counter, handing out name tags for everyone attending to wear.

"Pete! C'mon over here! I've got one of these special just for you!"

Patty was carefully printing his name on a card and sliding it inside its plastic holder. Pete was suddenly struck by the mixture of odors wafting in from the ballroom. Marijuana, beer, and perfume. Patty's eyes were a little red, and her face held a beatific smile.

"Why Pete, I don't think I've ever seen you wearing a belt before."

"Only for formal events."

"Well you just put on this little name tag and you have a good time."

"Thank you. I will do just that."

Across the entrance to the ballroom, in three foot letters, was the word, "PROGRESS." Red, white and blue crepe paper streamers adorned both sides of the sign. A five piece band had just started playing, Pete recognizing the tune, "Coca Cola Cowboy," before the vocalist started singing the first line.

He walked over to the bar. A stout, bearded bartender, both hands on the bar, stood behind the counter, looking like he was ready to vault over the top. Ray Bauman, who owned the county beer concession. One of the wealthiest men in the area.

"Yessir, what can I get you."

"A beer."

"One A-beer, yessir."

He filled the glass mug from a stainless steel keg.

"How do you carbonate the beer without carbon dioxide?"

The man smiled, looking pleased.

"Five weeks ago, I added a little sugar to this keg of brew. The yeast left over from the brewing process converts the sugar to alcohol and carbon dioxide," he said, putting a filled mug on the bar with a flourish. "There you be. Enjoy."

"Thanks. I'm smarter now than I was two minutes ago."

"Didn't take much, did it." Grinning.

Pete just grinned back and walked over to a table where Jay Flood was sitting with a plate of food and two empty shot glasses. Jay was inhaling deeply from a joint as Pete approached.

"Hey, Pete," said Jay, his voice unnaturally high. He gagged twice and then exhaled. "Have a seat, bro." He extended the joint invitingly to Pete.

"I'm fine," he said, raising his mug as proof. "Think I'll mingle a bit before I settle down. Hey, Paula. You're looking good, as always."

Paula was Jay's spouse. The perfect doctor's wife. She'd help to start a prenatal program for prospective mothers, organized food drives for the elderly and was a member of the newly formed school board. Paula was stylishly thin and always well dressed.

"Pete, you say the nicest things. Come over here and give me a hug."

Pete dutifully obliged. From the corner of his eye, he was observing a woman sitting next to Paula. Short blond hair, round face, blue eyes, early fifties.

"Oh Pete," said Paula, like she'd just remembered something. "This is Judy Gilliam, the new nurse out at Claude."

"Hello," she said, extending her hand.

"Hope you like it there. Did you just move to the area?" Her hand was warm and dry.

"That's right. From Clarendon. I was an instructor at the college. There aren't too many people left around there. Most of them are migrating to Amarillo. When I heard Thelma Ritter was moving, I jumped at the chance to take her job. I guess I've got some pretty big shoes to fill."

Pete glanced over to Jay for some sort of confirmation. ‘Typhoid’ Thelma was best known for referring colds (‘I think it's pneumonia.’) and stomach upsets (‘Probably cholera.’) to Dr. Jay Flood so he could examine them before sending them back home.