After the End: Survival (20 page)

"I guess I'll do just that." He glanced at his daughter, like he wanted to say more. The girl stared at the floor. After a few seconds, he walked outside.

Judy turned to her young charge.

"Cathy, I'll need some help with the paperwork. Your full name?"

"Cathy Lynn Snyder."

"Age?"

"Fifteen."

"Address?"

"Just off Washington, north of Palo Duro Lake. . ."

Judy completed the form. Vital signs were normal. She had Cathy partially disrobe for a physical exam and was not surprised the girl had a small .22 pistol tucked into a belt holster under her shirt. Carrying firearms was commonplace.

Initially, Cathy was quiet, answering questions with as few words as possible. Judy attributed the girl's shyness to a disfiguring scar that ran across her nose and one cheek. Gradually, though, she opened up. When she started talking about her infant daughter, she became almost radiant.

"Wendy is just so cool," she said. "She'll pull herself up next to a chair and get this look on her face, like, ‘Hey, look what I can do!’ And I'll start clapping, and she'll try to clap too and she falls down. And then we both start laughing!"

Judy had lost a husband, three children and two grandchildren to the Change, but the girl's joy of new motherhood was infectious.

"She sounds adorable. Wait until she starts walking! You'll lose five pounds the first month trying to keep up with her! Has she started talking yet?"

"Oh yeah, you wouldn't believe how smart she is! She says mama, gwada, that's my dad, and gwama, and Brwaa, that's my brother, Brent."

"You'll have to bring her by sometime I'd love to meet her." Noting the infant apparently did not say, ‘Dada’.

"Cathy, I think as far as your cramping and bleeding go, it's just your hormones trying to get back into a normal rhythm after pregnancy. It happens to a lot of new mothers and I'll bet your next period won't be as intense. I'm going to give you some ibuprofen now and for the next few days as you need it. I'm also going to give you some tea. It's a combination of feverfew, chamomile and yarrow. Sip a cup, a two times a day. You’ll want to eat liver once or twice a week and green leafy vegetables. We need to build up your iron. Those foods will help. Cathy, forgive me for asking, but I couldn't help notice you didn't mention anything about Wendy's father."

The girl was quiet for a moment. Then her once shy face became defiant.

"I don't know who he is. But I hope he burns in Hell."

"Why do you feel that way, Cathy?"

And like a dam bursting, the words flowed in a torrent as the girl recounted her child's conception.

It was near dusk. Cathy was on horseback, four miles from home. Maggie was her favorite horse, quick and intelligent. The summer sunset imparted a reddish glow and the soft breeze whispered the promise of a cool evening.

As they approached an abandoned farmhouse, the mare snorted and Cathy heard an answering whinny come from some trees in front of the house. A man on a horse came out of the shadows and waited as she rode closer.

"Howdy," said the man. He was clean shaven, about thirty, with a broad smile. "That's a pretty horse you have. And I bet she's fast as the wind."

"She's pretty fast," Cathy admitted. "When she cuts loose it's all I can do to hold on."

"You live around here?"

"Not too far away." She was abreast of the rider now and had pulled to a halt.

"Well, I live right over there," he said, pointing.

Turning her head to look, she was aware of a blur of movement. A crushing blow against her face knocked her to the ground. Painfully, she turned her head, dimly aware of the man standing over her, a short iron pipe in his right hand.

"I think you and me need to get better acquainted," he said.

He dropped the pipe by his side and roughly rolled the girl on to her back. Unbuckling her jeans, he jerked them down to her ankles and tugged off her boots. She kicked at him feebly but only succeeded in making the removal of her jeans even easier for the man.

"Why, thank you, honey that's real thoughtful of you," he said, stuffing her underwear into his jeans pocket. Then he unbuckled his own jeans and dropped to his knees. He spit on his hand, and then caressed his penis. "No reason why this can't be good for both of us."

She felt his crushing weight and a searing pain as he entered her. His mouth pressed hard against hers, and she gagged as his tongue slipped between her teeth. With her nose shattered, she was unable to breathe. Cathy felt a lightness, a release and she knew she was dying. She was not afraid, but only felt regret that it was all ending, and that it was happening this way. Then his mouth left hers, and she could breathe again. Her vision cleared and she could see him above her, his face twisted into something not human. His powerful thrusts became more rapid, knifing into her, he moaned, and she began yearning for the comfort death might bring.

And then it was over. He rolled off and lay on his back next to her.

"That was nice," he said softly.

Cathy lay still for a moment and tried to move.

"Don't you go anywhere," he said, catching her wrist. "We’re not finished yet."

Her other hand felt something cool and hard. It was the iron pipe he had used against her. She grasped it tightly, glanced over at the man, and with all her strength, drew the club across her body, connecting solidly with the man's forehead.

He cursed, reached out blindly, grabbing her arm. She clawed desperately at his face. He snatched at her hand, but she wrenched free. Scrambling to her feet, embarrassed by her nakedness, she grabbed her jeans and ran to Maggie. Panicking, Cathy fumbled at the stirrup for an instant, but then swung up in the saddle.

The man was staggering to his feet, pulling his pants up from his ankles.

"You little bitch, get back here!"

Cathy kicked her bare heels into the mare's sides and rode back toward home, holding Maggie to a flat run for almost three miles before the winded horse slowed to a gallop. It was only when she saw the lights of her house and heard the dogs barking did she stop to put on her jeans.

Her mother heard the horse approach the house and met Cathy at the front porch.

"Honey, what happened?"

Sobbing, ashamed, and confused, Cathy explained.

"M-Maggie g-got spooked by a snake, and she threw me. It w-wasn't her fault!"

"Oh Cathy, look at your face! Does it hurt, baby? Come on inside. James!"

One morning six weeks later Cathy threw up for no reason she could think of. It only took her mother a few days and a few casual questions to put two and two together.

Cathy never changed her story. She never told who the father was.

Not until now.

An hour and a half after they had gone into the exam room, Cathy and Judy came out. James Snyder was in the waiting room, his face anxious.

"Is she all right?"

"You have an exceptional daughter, Mr. Snyder. She's going to be just fine.”

Washing dishes makes for quiet reflection.

Try and tell that to the mothers of the world, Pete thought. They'd hand you a soapy dish rag and say, ‘Reflect to your heart's content. I'm stepping out for a beer.’

Why had David Rodriguez been killed? And what was he doing at the Probation and Parole building, twenty miles from Canyon, looking at files of ex-convicts? That's where things stopped making sense.

"Well, hell, I've got nothing else to do this afternoon. It's a great day for a drive."

Fifteen minutes later he was pulling up to the Probation building. The midday sun was heating things up pretty well and the recent rains made it unusually humid. The glass doors were unlocked and his footsteps echoed loudly down the empty corridor.

He entered the room in which David's body had been found, disturbing the horde of flies attracted to the fresh protein scattered about the room. Pete gagged and had to step out into the hallway for a moment to steel himself. Taking a deep breath, he walked back in the room.

Blood turns black in a hot room. Black flecks surrounded the floor around the desk where David had been seated. The desk was stacked with brown manila folders. The top of each pile of folders was covered with dried blood.

Despite the heat, the smell of blood was faint.

"I hate flies," Pete said, waving his hand over the desk to disperse the buzzing insects.

That was when he noticed there were two rectangular areas that were free of blood. One was an area the size of a manila folder. The other was a small note pad. Pete picked up the pad, flipping through the pages. All the pages were blank. He walked over to a window, and held the top page of the pad to the light, turning it at varying angles. He could make out indistinct letters.

Grabbing a pencil from a desk drawer, he moved the graphite pencil tip lightly over the pad in a rapid, back and forth motion.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said aloud. He recalled the technique from an Agatha Christie novel.

Letters began appearing from the pad as if by magic.

"Hey, it really works! Thank you, Miss Marple."

A name and address. Robert Decker. 932 N. Houston.

There were not many people living in northeast Amarillo. A few months after the Change, a fire had swept through the area. Many of the wood frame homes were destroyed. Over the past three years Mother Nature had begun her patient work of reclamation; hardy young elm trees were growing from cracks in sidewalks and slab foundations. The debris of ruined homes was often hidden by overgrown shrubs.

Pete drove slowly, counting driveways and sidewalks to help keep track of the addresses of vacant lots and broken homes. A coyote approaching the street saw Pete's car and whirled around, fleeing into some brush.

932 Houston was a small white house. A brick veneer came up to window level on the front wall of the home, and the side walls were covered with aluminum panels. A number of shingles were missing from the roof, exposing rotting wood underneath. All the windows he could see were intact. Parking his car, Pete walked up the sidewalk. A storm door lay on the ground, torn off by the wind. The front door was unlocked, and he walked in.

Something dark and furry brushed against his cheek. Pete grunted in surprise and dropped into a crouch, his hands held up to protect his face.

"Shit! Bat!" He exhaled loudly, watching the terrified animal bang against a couple of walls before it disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.

The air was musty. Moth-eaten curtains hung limply from the windows. A green couch, an overstuffed chair and a coffee table filled the living room. A large TV and an expensive stereo were on shelves against a wall. Dust and animal droppings covered everything but the room was fairly neat. Junk mail and a
Sports Illustrated
magazine confirmed this was 932 North Houston and that the resident had been a Robert Decker.

In the kitchen, some dishes lay in a dry sink. A few empty cereal boxes and plastic bread wrappers were strewn about the floor. A couple of years experience in scrounging had taught Pete not to bother opening the refrigerator. The bathroom, small and cramped, had a cracked bar of soap laying in the tub and a couple of dusty towels hanging from a bar on the wall. Nothing much in the medicine cabinet, just rusty razor blades and some dental floss.

He walked down a short hallway and into a bedroom. Jammed inside were a dozen televisions, numerous I-Pads, telephones and car stereos. A dozen laptops were stacked in a corner. All this stuff was useless without electricity, so Pete assumed it had all been acquired before the Change. It seems Mr. Decker was in the business of acquiring and selling used electronics.

He walked into another bedroom. An unmade bed, two chairs and a dresser completed the room's furnishings. Pete went over to the dresser and checked the drawers. Sweaters, socks, underwear, the top drawer had some change, and a stack of gift cards.

The closet door was closed. He walked over a couple of steps and opened it.

The human skeleton was complete, in a sitting position against the closet wall. Black, shoulder length hair was still attached to the grinning skull. Although he was not aware of having moved, Pete discovered he was now ten feet away from the closet and was standing in the hallway.

"Dammit, shit, son-of-a-bitch. That's twice in five minutes I've had the shit scared out of me. Shit," he added, for good measure. He stomped around the hallway, noisily hyperventilating. His chest was pounding. It was not unusual for scroungers to find a body in an abandoned house, a victim of the Change. But they were generally found lying on a couch or bed.

After a minute of huffing and puffing, Pete walked back into the bedroom and cautiously approached the closet.

"Yep. Still there."

His interest became professional. He examined the long bones of the arm, near the wrist and shoulder. The growth plates were not complete.

"OK. We got an adolescent."

He checked the shape of the pelvis to try and determine gender, but was unsuccessful. Two small gold earrings lay in the dust on the floor. Most of the teenage boys he'd seen sporting earrings wore only one.

"Probably female."

He looked around the room. In one corner by the bed were some rumpled clothes. Shaking out the dust, he determined they were a girl's jeans and blouse. Shoes and socks were nearby. No underwear.

Back over to the closet. Gingerly standing over the skeleton, he pulled a cardboard box down from a shelf. Inside were envelopes, canceled checks, insurance papers. Pete carried it all to the kitchen table, spreading the stuff out as he went through the contents.

Robert Decker was the owner of an aging Ford Fiesta on which he carried only liability insurance. Paycheck stubs indicated he'd worked almost two months at the AA Paint and Body Shop on Amarillo Boulevard. He was renting the house for $625 a month. Court documents indicated he had been convicted of sexual indecency with a minor. He had served twenty-three months of an eight year sentence when he had been released on parole. He was supposed to meet with his probation officer once a month. If he did not do this, or violated any of the terms of his parole, he would be sent back to a correctional facility, courtesy the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.