In The End: a pre-apocalypse novel (9 page)

“It ain't what you don't know that gets
you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.” – Mark Twain

Trey knew he had hurt Carl but he didn’t know how badly, so
he wanted to get away from Monica’s house as fast as possible. At the
intersection where Monica’s street reached the highway, he turned hard to the
right causing the van to slide around the corner. With adrenaline feeding his
body and brain, he expertly corrected and rapidly accelerated.

Monica stared straight ahead, seemingly
unconcerned by the vehicle sliding on every sharp curve of the snow-slicked
road. Trey knew he was driving too fast, but he didn’t feel he had a choice. He
just needed to be careful and get to a safe place. His eyes frequently left the
road as he searched for a place to pull over to see if he could get Monica into
some clothes. He was fairly certain they wouldn’t run into any law enforcement,
but if they did, he didn’t want to be in a position of having to explain why he
was traveling with a nude woman in shock with a bloody and bruised face.

No, I didn’t beat her and rape her,
officer – a friend of mine did that.

His mind focused on three
priorities, in order: Get away from Carl, get Monica dressed, and get to
safety. The snowfall began to increase and Trey looked at the unfamiliar
controls on the steering column. He grabbed the one on the left and turned it
like he was accelerating a motorcycle in reverse. The windshield wipers came on
at full speed. The rapid swiping motion made him feel nervous, as if the car
was panicking and causing him to feel panicky too. He rotated the control back
toward himself and the wipers slowed to a less frantic pace.

The sky was a large expanse of
blended grey and white. A car passed by going the opposite direction, flashing
its high beams once. Trey looked at the dash. His high beams were off. Maybe
the guy was just saying hi. He looked up and spotted a small black stream of
wispy smoke flowing upward from a house somewhere up ahead and off to the
right. Someone had just started a fire, or had just let one go out in their
fireplace or woodstove. Maybe they would help.

A minute later he saw where the
smoke was coming from. The turnoff toward the house was coming up immediately
on his right. He braked too hard as he made the turn. The van lost its
traction, sliding forward at an angle until the front end slammed into a
utility pole, breaking the windshield and bringing the van to a complete stop,
which catapulted Trey through the windshield. He flew through the air and hit a
stone retaining wall that bordered a large front yard.

Monica jerked forward from the
impact but was restrained by her seatbelt. She clawed at the airbag covering
her face in a panic. She coughed from the cornstarch dust that was released
during the deployment. The driver side airbag was draped over the van’s short
hood, flapping in the breeze. After the loud crunching sound of the collision,
and the airbags deploying, there was silence except for a hissing sound from
under the hood.

Monica’s eyes were more alert and
active now than they had been since Carl knocked her unconscious. She brought
her trembling hands to her face and cried. Freezing cold air blew into the van
and she became fully aware that she wasn’t wearing anything. She looked down at
the blanket wrapped around her as if she didn’t remember how or why that was
all she had covering her flesh. She desperately wanted something to wear and to
get warm somehow.

She looked over at the empty
driver’s seat. She knew the van had been in a collision but didn’t remember
Trey getting out. Her mind was only beginning to work regularly as she came out
of shock so she dismissed the mystery of where Trey had gone and resolved to
get dressed somehow. She turned in her seat to look around and try to figure out
where she was. She saw one of her suitcases in the cargo area. She looked out
the window to her right at the empty and silent street, then dropped the
blanket and quickly squeezed herself between the bucket seats, then scrambled
over the second row of seats and released the hasps on her suitcase.

She didn’t know who had packed her
clothes or why they were packed so badly, but she was glad to have them. As she
got dressed, she noticed bruises on her arms and legs. An image flashed into
her mind of a large and violent psychopath. She immediately pushed the thought
away. She did not want to think about what had happened to her. Not now; maybe
not ever.

Now that she was dressed, she
looked around for shoes and didn’t see any. Apparently, whoever had packed her
case didn’t think she’d be going outside. She needed to go… she almost thought
the word “home,” but stopped herself. She didn’t want to think about home. She
needed to go somewhere. She couldn’t sit here freezing to death in her wrecked
minivan.

Carl awoke the next morning feeling like someone had dropped
a load of bricks on his head. This angered him because he was certain that if
he had gotten enough sleep he’d wake up feeling better. But instead he felt
worse. He raised one arm and carefully checked the bumps on his head. They were
no smaller than before he had slept. He clenched his teeth thinking of Trey and
the payback he had coming to him.

He slowly got out of Monica’s bed
and looked in her closet.
Nothing but women’s clothes.
Alright then, where did her damned husband sleep? Were things not going so well
between the army boy and his pretty little lady? Separate rooms? Carl wasn’t
surprised. She was a hellcat. Probably didn’t know her place with her old man
either.

He left the room to check the one
across the hall. Here was the safe that Trey had tried and failed to break
into. Carl yearned to open the safe. He imagined it being filled with shiny,
new weapons. Trey had taken the Glock and left him with nothing. He wished he
had some dynamite. He’d blow the thing wide open, right there in the damn
bedroom.

Further down the hall he found one
more door. He opened it and saw the inside of a two car garage. He flipped on
the light switch next to the doorway and nothing happened. He’d have to rely on
the grey light coming through the windows. He looked around. Aha! A stack of
clothes on a workbench, all wrapped in dry cleaning bags. Carl walked over to
the stack of clothing and cycled through each item, extracting the few things
that he found least objectionable.

Along with the dress pants, dress
shirts and military uniforms were also khakis and flannel shirts. Finally, on
the bottom of the stack he found the sole pair of Levi’s and added them to his
small collection.

“What kinda man dry-cleans his
Levi’s?” Carl grumbled, shaking his head. He went back inside, found the
bathroom, and showered, carefully washing the blood from his face and head,
trying to not re-open the wounds. After toweling off, he put on the Levi’s
which just barely fit. They were uncomfortable but would have to do for now.
There was no deodorant or men’s shaving cream; not even a man’s razor among all
of the women’s stuff in the cabinet above the bathroom sink.

“Fuck it,” Carl said to himself.
Real men didn’t need any of that shit anyway. It was fine with him if he looked
and smelled like a man. Besides, he’d like to see the man or woman with the
balls to say anything. He went to the bedroom and as he was putting on his
dirty socks and his boots, hunger suddenly struck him like a freight train
slamming into his stomach. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and doubled
over from the sudden pain. He hadn’t eaten since the day before yesterday.

“God damn!” he said, straightening
up. “I gotta eat
somethin
’.”

He went to the kitchen and scowled
at how nice and pretty everything was with perfect little curtains that
decorated a window next to the dining table with a view to the backyard.
Placemats in four places at the table with some kind of wheat pattern on them.
A white tablecloth with fall leaves scattered about sparsely. Carl kicked the
edge of the table, sending it sliding into the corner.

He turned and walked the few steps
to the refrigerator. He opened the door and couldn’t believe the lack of food
that he found on the shelves.
Some Coors Light and a couple
of yogurt containers on the top shelf next to some almond milk.

“How the fuck do you get milk out
of an almond for Christ’s sake?”

In the door there were two rows of
eggs. Carl took one out on the chance that they might be hard-boiled. He threw
it into the sink hoping for a dull thud but it splattered yolk all over. He
turned back and opened a drawer labeled Meat and found a package of Uncured
Bacon. He didn’t know what that meant, but bacon was bacon as far as he was
concerned. He’d even eat some of that fake-ass turkey bacon if that was all he
could find.

After a breakfast of bacon and
scrambled eggs with almond milk, (and no bread anywhere) Carl felt a lot
better, but still hungry. He decided he’d had enough from this kitchen though.
He’d get some real food like a big-ass steak somewhere else. The diner down the
mountain should be a goldmine of food, and everything would be free.

He found his jacket and his gloves
and went back to Monica’s room to get the stuff out of his pants pockets. Now
that he had bathed and eaten, he was aware of the stench coming from his grimy
Levi’s. He almost wanted to wash his hands after touching them.

He went outside and started up his
bike. He looked at Trey’s bike and thought about setting it on fire but
remembered it was actually his. He had given it to the back--stabbing bastard.
He’d figure out a way to come back for it later. He looked at the driveway
while he let his engine warm up. He saw a large rectangular area in the center
of the driveway with less snow than the surrounding area. There were no tire
tracks visible from when the van had driven away. That was okay. He knew where
to find them.

He brushed his left foot back to
raise the kickstand and he revved the engine a few times. He started off
slowly, releasing the clutch and giving the bike only a little gas but he still
laid it down as he turned out of the driveway and onto the snowy gravel.

He got up cursing and kicking at
his bike. He strained to lift it and got it upright. He put the kickstand back
down and looked around. He needed four wheels in this shit. The snow was
probably sticking to the highway now. He didn’t know how to hot-wire, so he
needed keys. That meant he needed to find a car where the owner was home. He
looked at the house across the street. He couldn’t tell if anyone was home or
not. The porch light was off of course, and there was no car in the driveway,
but that meant nothing since most folks would have their cars inside their
garages when it snowed.

The wind picked up and blew snow
around as Carl walked across the street. He went up to the door quickly. The
wind was blowing right through his clothes. He pounded on the door urgently. An
old man with wispy white hair decorating his mostly bald head came to the door
wearing a thick green robe. The man pushed a small curtain aside from the
window in the door and looked at Carl with interest.

“Yes?” he asked loudly, without
opening the door.

Carl was wearing normal clean
clothes, but his face was bruised and unshaved so he knew he didn’t look like
the nicest of strangers to be appearing at someone’s door. He thought quickly.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to get
home to Edwards and my little girl
don’t
think she can
hold it that long. Could you be so kind to let her use your bathroom real
quick? Her momma died last week in a car crash we were in and I just hate
making her suffer more than she already is. She cried all night.”

The old man had concern in his eyes
as he listened to Carl’s plea. He unlocked the door and as soon as he started
to open it Carl kicked it with the bottom of his boot, putting all of his
lower-body strength in to it. The old man was flung inward with the door and
slammed into the wall. He crumpled to the ground, his body pushing the door
slowly back toward Carl who stuck his arm out to stop it,
then
let himself inside.

“Anybody home?” he yelled. Probably
no one else there except for maybe an old woman, but he wanted to make sure. No
one responded so Carl cautiously made his way further into the house. The place
sounded empty, he thought, but someone could be sleeping. He went down the hall
and looked in the bedrooms. The floor plan was the same as the house he’d just
left. The master bedroom had an empty unmade bed. The second room looked like
an office with a leather couch and lots of bookshelves filled with more books
than Carl had ever seen outside of a library. He shook his head at the
absurdity of one person having so many books. What was the point? He opened the
last door that he knew would lead to the garage.

“Now that’s what I’m
talkin
’ about!” he said, as he a 1932 Ford Roadster
gleaming on the clean concrete floor like it had just rolled off the production
line. The deep red paint was so glossy it looked wet. The top was off and Carl
walked over and looked inside to see if the keys were in it. They weren’t.

He went back into the house. He was
excited about the car. If he could score a firearm or two, he’d leave here in
style, ready to take on the world. If only his head wasn’t still throbbing. He
found a keychain on a hook in the dining room but he did not find any guns
other than a civil war musket hanging on the wall above the fireplace.

He grabbed a banana from a fruit
bowl on the table and went to the garage. He tried to open the garage door from
inside, but it was locked. The key to the padlock was on the keychain. He
entered the garage from the driveway and got into the roadster. Now he just
needed this thing to start. He hoped to hell that it wasn’t just a museum
piece. He turned the key and the sound of the engine revving to life made him
smile. He backed out into the street then shifted into Drive.

He wanted to see what the V8 under
the hood could do, so he floored the gas, expecting to peel out, thinking of
how cool he’d look burning rubber in a fancy hot rod, but the wheels just spun
on the wet rocks, sending gravel flying up into the under-carriage and the
street behind him. Disappointed, he let up on the gas and drove slowly to the
end of the street, turning left onto the paved road which was coated with a
layer of slushy snow.

As he drove down the mountain, he
wondered if he should go back and look for the convertible top, but he decided
to stick with his forward momentum and just keep going. The wind was cold and
wet snow blew around him and stuck to the windshield, but he was too excited to
care. It even seemed like his head hurt less – at first.