Cruel World (26 page)

He dove to the side, ducking beneath a reaching hand the size of a car tire. One of its ragged fingernails dug a furrow in the skin of his back, tearing his shirt partially away. He cried out and rolled to his feet, running as soon as he gained his balance. The stilt roared, and a whoosh of air passed the back of his head. His legs threatened to drop him as he pelted up the rise and tripped onto the blacktop, the revolver lying in the last rays of sun, its grip extended toward him.

He stretched, fingertips snagging the trigger guard.

Long fingers encircled his ankle and yanked him back the way he’d come. The road scratched his shoulders, and he spun the handgun around, his finger finding the trigger.

Quinn sat up and fired.

The revolver boomed, bucking like an animal in his hand. The stilt made a wheezing sound and placed a white palm over a dark hole in its chest. Its eyes bulged, too human and filled with pain. It hacked and a globule of blood spurted from its open jaws. It tried to breathe in, but a sound like a child sucking the last of a milkshake from the bottom of a glass filled the air. It released the iron grip on his ankle and took two great steps back.

It teetered on its feet for a long second and then fell like a giant tree.

The stilt crashed to the ground, landing on a jagged rock, the sound of breaking bones clear in the still evening. Its hand fell away from the hole in its chest and blood flowed from the wound, dropping to the ground like dark rain.

Quinn stared at it, watching for any movement, even a twitch of dead muscle fibers, but there was nothing. Only then did he realize he was still aiming the revolver at its flat form.

A croak came from the direction of town.

Then another.

And another.

Soon the air was alive with the other stilt’s calls. Quinn pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward the overturned Honda as the first creature strode into view from behind the poultry farm.

It charged.

He sprinted toward the bag and cane, snatching them up from the highway before pelting down to the ATV. More stilts were emerging from the streets of Ferry, their height dwarfed by the distance between them. He slid to a stop beside the Honda and dropped the bag before stooping to grip the top of the roll bar. He heaved with everything he had, muscles shaking and a groan coming from his chest.

The ATV rose and then tipped to settle on its wheels.

Quinn tossed the bag and cane into the back and swung into the driver’s seat. The stilt coming from the poultry farm had almost reached the edge of the property and the fence beyond. He hit the key, the engine sputtering once before grinding to life. He slammed the vehicle into drive and shot forward as the stilt leapt over the fence and climbed to the highway, its baritone cry overshadowing the howl of the motor.

He guided the Honda onto the highway and pressed the pedal to the floor. The engine whined for a moment and then hummed evenly, its speed increasing without a hitch. Quinn glanced back and saw the herd galloping behind him down the highway, all swinging, pale limbs and gnashing teeth. The Honda carried him up a short rise and then around a bend, the stilts disappearing from view.

He let himself sag in the seat, all his strength gone, washed away by the torrent of adrenaline that now receded. After another two miles, the sign for the Crowfoot County Recreation Building appeared, and he flipped on the headlights as he turned up the road and sped on.

Chapter 22

The Plague

Quinn withdrew the needle from the muscle of Alice’s calf.

“There. Now we’ll just have to watch it to make sure it takes care of the infection,” he said, rising to put the bottle of antibiotic away. Alice watched him, her face dappled by shadow and light from the fire that burned low in the hearth.

After arriving at the rec center, he’d waited in the middle of the drive, running a ball of string through pop cans he’d found in a large recycling bin behind the building. When he had enough made up to stretch across the open approach, he strung the trip wire between two trees, its center hanging six inches from the ground. All the other routes leading to the lodge were blocked by heavy brush and trees. If something came for them in the night, they’d hear it.

When he’d turned to go inside after one last walk around the building, the German Shepherd was sitting in the mouth of the hiking trail, no more than a mound of shadow amidst the growing night. He’d called to it, but the moment his voice rang out, it sprung away, vanishing in the undergrowth.

“That was really stupid of you to go,” Alice said, readjusting herself in the chair as she sorted through the first aid kit he’d brought back. “You’ll probably turn into one of those things now since you got scratched.”

“Yeah, maybe my looks will improve,” Quinn said, setting aside the cloth bag. He glanced at her until she finally dropped her gaze.

“I’m sorry. I appreciate it, but you didn’t need to go.”

“Really? Would you rather I chop your leg off at the knee three days from now with a hatchet we find in a barn somewhere?”

“God, you don’t have to be gross. I’m trying to say thank you.”

“Well, try harder,” Quinn said, pulling off his shredded shirt before donning a new one with the Crowfoot County symbol emblazoned across the chest. His anger simmered, heating his face, but when he looked at Alice, she was grinning. “What?” he asked.

“You look like such a tourist.”

Quinn opened his mouth and surprised himself by laughing. Alice chuckled too, and Ty raised his head from where he played in the far corner of the room, surrounded by four stuffed animals that had come from the gift shop. His new cane was by his side within reach.

“I am a tourist. Everywhere I go is the first time I’ve been there.”

“Even with everything, it must be kind of amazing for you,” Alice said. Quinn waited for a punch line. And when none came, he had a hard time answering.

“It is. As terrible as that sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound terrible at all. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for this world to be waiting for you. You’ve got to appreciate beauty even in the worst places. I think the ones who survive will have to come to terms with that.” She looked away, into the fire and stared at it like an adversary, her gaze unwavering.

“I think I can do that,” he said.

“I think you’ve always been able to.”

They were quiet for a time, Quinn watching the firelight on her face, how it clung to every angle.

“Thank you. I mean it,” Alice said, finally. “You are my knight in tattered and torn armor.”

“Sir Getshurtalot at your service,” he said, bowing.

Alice smiled. “Come get warm by the fire.”

He pulled another chair closer to the hearth and steadied the AR-15 against its arm before sitting down. The blankets he’d nailed over the windows respirated with the night air. Ty whispered to his stuffed animals.

“This is a pretty extensive first aid kit. Good pick,” Alice said, placing all the contents back inside the red zippered container.

“Yeah?”

“Yep. Even has a flare gun.”

“I’ll remember that if we get lost at sea.”

“So you didn’t see anyone human,” she said after a time. It wasn’t a question.

“No. No one alive. Just…them.”

“What were they doing?”

“Milling around. Scavenging, I think.”

“But why were there so many? Why are they traveling so close together?”

Quinn sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I was asking myself the same questions. The only answer is we were way off in our calculations about their population.” He wiped at a dark stain on the thigh of his pants. “
Way
off.”

“But you said they were moving in the same direction, right?”

“Yeah. They seem to be, give or take a little.”

“Then what’s drawing them?”

“Drawing them?”

“You know. It’s almost like they’re migrating. Like flocks of birds traveling south before winter or returning in the spring.”

The memory of the Geese flying above the highway surfaced in his mind.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Then what is it? What’s driving them?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said, rising from his chair. “I can’t make any sense of it. I don’t even know what they are.” He went to the window, pulling the heavy blanket aside enough to peer out. The dark was softened by starlight. The trees were gently swaying guards, the pop can trip line clinked quietly. He let the blanket fall into place and returned to the fire.

“They’re people. Just like you and me,” Alice said.

“Not anymore.”

“But they were. The more I think about it the more I realize that maybe the disease that wiped most of us out wasn’t the real plague. Maybe the stilts are. Maybe they’re the end of everything. The very end.”

“I don’t think it matters anymore. Where it came from or who started it. What matters is staying alive.”

“But we need to understand the why in all of this. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Quinn’s eyelids were beyond heavy, his body a thousand pounds. “I need some sleep before I try to think any more.”

Alice nodded, bringing the rifle closer to her chair. “I’ll take first watch.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. I got a bunch of rest while you were messing around in town.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He pulled a cushion off the chair he’d been sitting in and stretched out by the fire, its heat loosening the knots in his muscles, lulling him into a soundless void that he drifted through without a hint of dreams.

~

“Quinn.”

He woke at once, sitting up as reality snapped into focus so hard he blinked against it. The fire had burnt down to embers, only a faint, red glow staining the room. The lodge was silent except for Ty’s even breathing in a nearby chair and the gentle push of the wind in the eaves.

He turned his head toward the figure standing two strides away. Alice limped closer, her dark hair keeping her face in shadow.

“There’s something at the door,” she whispered, handing him her revolver. He took it from her and got to his feet, electricity running through his nerves. He made his way toward the heavy front door as a brief scratching came from its base. He shot a look at Alice, and she nodded, bringing up the rifle as he eased to the building’s closest window. Clouds had moved in while he slept and smothered the stars so that a foot away from the lodge the night became a solid thing that gave nothing to his searching eyes. He sidled to the door as a board creaked on the porch. With a wave of his hand, he signaled Alice by holding up three fingers. Slowly he dropped them into a fist.

Three.

Two.

One.

He yanked the door open as Alice snapped on the light mounted to the rifle.

The dog sat before them, its ears perked, head turning from one side to the other before it licked its chops.

Quinn lowered the handgun and looked into its dark eyes.

“You want to come in?” he asked.

The Shepherd rose immediately and trotted into the room, walking a straight line to the base of Ty’s chair where it sniffed once and then laid down, its head erect and watching them.

Quinn shut and bolted the door and crossed the room to the back of Ty’s chair. The dog’s eyes followed him.

“Well, make yourself at home,” Alice said, the rifle not at her shoulder but not at her side either.

“I think he might be,” Quinn said, taking in the dog’s length and deep chest. It was big and powerful, plainly at ease with itself.

“You mean it lived here?”

“I’m guessing. Maybe the guy who killed himself upstairs let it out before he did it. Couldn’t bear to do the same for his pet.” The Shepherd shot a look up the stairs and then back at Quinn as if confirming his assumption. “And then it led us here.”

“I think you’re giving it too much credit. It’s a dog, Quinn.”

“I know, but it definitely didn’t try to hide itself. If it wanted to, it could’ve let us pass right on by. It was like it was biding its time, seeing what kind of people we were.”

They watched the dog, and it stared back at them, blinking every so often. Finally it lowered its wide head onto its paws and sighed before falling asleep.

“That’s the damnedest thing,” Alice said, moving to her chair. “You think it’s dangerous?”

“No. Someone definitely cared for it. Look how heavy it is, how nice its coat looks.”

“What a traveling fucking circus we have going here,” Alice said, getting comfortable in her chair. “If we meet a juggling clown, I’m shooting his ass.”

Quinn took the rifle from her to keep watch for the remainder of the night. He studied the dog sleeping soundly at the base of Ty’s chair. Strange how it had gone straight to him, like it knew he was the youngest, the most vulnerable.

Where did you come from?
Quinn thought.

~

The night passed without incident, and the sun rose amidst gusting wind that flapped the blankets and stirred the coals of the fire into flame again. Ty had exclaimed with fear and then delight upon waking to the giant bed of fur slumbering beside his chair. The dog had gotten up without a sound as Ty’s feet grazed its back, and with Alice watching pensively, it began licking Ty’s hand and then his face.

“He’s nice, mom; he’s nice!” Ty said, running his hands over the Shepherd’s head and ears.

“Well, that remains to be seen,” Alice answered, hobbling close to the fire to warm her hands.

“Can we keep him?”

“How do you know it’s a he?” she asked.

“Mom,” Ty said, drawing out the middle of the word as if he were talking to someone much younger. “He’s too big to be a girl.”

Ty’s assumption proved correct when Quinn brought the dog outside. It lifted a back leg and sprayed the bottom of a highline pole beside the lodge before returning to the porch to sit and stare at him.

“So what’s his name?” Ty asked, coming outside, his cane tapping before him.

“I don’t know. You wanna think of one for him?”

“We can’t do that. He’s grown up. He’s already got a name.”

Quinn cocked his head. “I guess you’re probably right. So what is it, big guy?” he said, addressing the dog. “Is your name Jake?” The Shepherd mirrored Quinn’s head tilt and whined once in the back of his throat. “No? How about Zeke? Is it Zeke?”

“Zeke?” Ty asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really been around a dog before.”

“Me neither. Mom says they’re dirty.”

“Yeah, well Billy Bob here doesn’t look dirty.”

Ty giggled. “Billy Bob?”

“Sure. He could be a Billy Bob, right boy?” The dog whined and then let out a short woof.

“Just name him Flea Train and be done with it,” Alice said, coming out to stand on the porch. “That’s what they all are.”

“Oh come on, mom. He’s really nice.”

“Doesn’t he have a collar on?” she asked.

“He does, but there’s no tag on it,” Quinn said, moving down the steps. The dog came to him, panting and smiling as he petted his head. “I’m going to take a look around back.”

He walked to the rear of the house, the dog remaining where he was beside the porch. Between two large propane cylinders, a makeshift lean-to sat a few feet above the ground. Beneath it were twin dog bowls. One was partially full of greenish, scummy water. The other sat beside a torn bag of dog food. Several dark pebbles rattled as he lifted it out into the light. He wiped away dust and dirt from the side exposing bright letters.

“His name’s Denver,” Quinn said, coming back around the front while holding up the dish. “It’s right here on your bowl, isn’t it, Denver?” The dog wagged his tail and came to him, nuzzling his leg before jumping to put huge paws on his chest. “Whoa! You’re too big for that.” He pushed the dog back down, but Denver continued to wag his tail, his entire body shivering with delight.

“Denver. Wouldn’t ever have guessed that,” Alice said. “Maybe it’s where he’s from originally.”

“That could be,” Quinn said, ruffling the dog’s fur one more time before mounting the steps.