The Scattered and the Dead (Book 1): A Post-Apocalyptic Series (23 page)

The food was so bright. Acidic. The cola had acid, and the ketchup had acid, and the special sauce had acid, and the pickle had acid. Every bite packed a punch that made his palate tingle. He wanted to look down on the food, to use irony or some other form of ridicule to put himself above this chain restaurant, this sandwich built on an assembly line and fries mass produced factory-style, these people crawling all over each other for their share. He wanted to tell himself he was better than all of this, but he couldn’t. He thought it was delicious. For some reason he was ashamed of that just now, but it was the truth.

None of them spoke during the meal, each of them once more falling into a trance. It wasn’t the same as watching the world through the windows. The stimulation here proved more visceral, flashes of pleasure released from the brain as the sugar and fat crossed their taste buds and seeped into the bloodstream. Endorphins.

And Mitch got some nostalgic sense just then, some feeling that if he could stay in this moment, he could be OK. That so long as he was eating, filling that basic animal need and attaining the biological satisfaction that comes with it, he couldn’t actually die, that food could somehow comfort him forever. It was an irrational thought, he knew. If only he could find a way to eat ground beef eternally, all of his problems would just go away.

He sucked fizzy syrup from his straw, the sweet, bright fluid rolling over his tongue and cascading down his throat like a miniature Coca-Cola waterfall. He glanced to his right, the savage swarm of pumpkin heads snapping him out of the momentary escape from anxiety over his impending death. The people looked so agitated, aggressive, unhappy. It reminded him of watching the riot, watching the men club the zombie on the sidewalk, watching the people bust out windows and haul away armfuls of merchandise.

He ate the last bite of Big Mac, getting one final burst of that comfort that seemed capable of washing everything else away, feeling it fade out seconds after he swallowed. Of all the stages of death, denial was his favorite, he decided. He just wished he could make it last.

Baghead

Rural Oklahoma

9 years, 126 days after

Sandy ground spread over the flatlands around the Delta 88, with nothing but weeds and the periodic dead tree to break up the monotony. The most plant-less areas evolved rapidly at the whims of the winds, forming dunes and valleys that shifted day by day.

The road looked faded, a light gray like a man’s beard right on the cusp of going pure white, with two darker grooves in each lane where the tires wore the asphalt down. The car juddered over cracks and Delfino weaved around potholes the best he could.

“People control the roads between here and there,” Delfino said. “And we have to deal with them to get where we want to go.”

“So they’re going to extort stuff from us.”

“Well, I guess you could say that. They call it paying a toll.”

“What’s the toll, then?”

“Depends on what you have.”

Bags scrunched his brow, feeling it rub against the canvas.

“So they dig through your stuff and take what they want?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“And they call that paying a toll?”

“Right. You get it.”

“Have you considered ways of getting around them?”

“Oh, lord no. They’re quite diligent about enforcing the toll and quite well armed on top of that. A ruthless bunch out here, but they do take good care of the road.”

“So you let just them take whatever they want?”

“Cost of doing business, Bags. They take your stuff, but if you keep in line, they don’t kill you. That is one of the things I’ve always liked about them.”

They fell quiet for a while. Bags closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the engine, the tires spinning on the asphalt. They hit a pothole, and the car shook.

“Well, what kind of stuff do they usually take?”

“Weapons and ammo are the first to go, which is why I don’t bother bringing any past their checkpoints.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not even armed? Our deal was for secure transport. Secure. Weapons are strongly implied.”

“Relax. I have a stash of guns along the way. More than one stash, in fact. Trust me, we’ll have access to more than enough firepower to handle anything we come upon. I’ve been at this a long time, and I’m still here.”

Baghead leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes again. Air puffed from his nostrils, and it took him a second to realize how frustrated he’d grown. He didn’t know why. He’d traveled far and wide on his own without weapons, though he mostly stayed off of the road. It must be something about this group that controlled the roads.

“Wait,” he said, opening his eyes. “You said they take care of the roads. What does that even entail?”

Delfino smiled.

“See how chewed up all of this out here is? All these potholes and big ol’ cracks and shit. Well, they fill all of that in, mostly with well packed dirt, and it’s a constant effort with the traffic and the rain, when it bothers, eating away at it. It ain’t perfect, but it’s a lot smoother sailing than this junk. Anyway, that effort comes at a price. I just accept it.”

“I see.”

More bumps throttled the car as if to cement Delfino’s point. He looked out at the dust flying around and wondered how long it’d be until they made it somewhere greener, somewhere that actually got consistent enough rainfall to support life beyond weeds. It’d been a long time.

“Like I said, though, this is a ruthless bunch. I mean, they’re full on cutthroats. You keep in line and you’re fine. But beheadings are real common around these parts if you mess around. I’ve seen it myself. Just WHACK through the neck and the head pops clean off.”

Delfino shook his head before he went on.

“I know how to talk to these types, so it might be best if you don’t say anything. Got that?”

“Yeah, sure. When will we get there?”

“We’ll hit their territory in about an hour.”

Baghead nodded, and then he nestled his head back against the headrest. Within three minutes, he was asleep again.

Travis

Hillsboro, Michigan

57 days after

He moved in a still night, the only thing awake. In fact, he felt like the only thing alive, and maybe that would be true soon enough. His pulse banged in his neck, quaking just below his jaw, a gushing thrum inside of him, hot and wet and red. He clenched and unclenched his teeth, feeling the muscles ball up and release over and over just in front of his ears.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot in a squatted position, coaxing his legs back to life after so long holding still. His feet flexed, lifting him up and setting him back down on the opposite leg. The weight of him rested on the ball of each foot. Everything felt good – his feet, his legs, his back. He felt alive, awake, electricity jittering in his skull, opening his eyes up wide, even in the dark.

This was it.

He pushed the closet door open, his motion slow and careful and confident. The bottom of the door hissed a little against the carpet as it moved, but something about his motion was so fluid that it didn’t sound unnatural. It sounded like that little sigh of someone exhaling in their sleep, he thought.

To be sure, he held still in the open doorway, waiting for a long moment. The air in the main room felt cooler than that of the closet, a shock of chill against the sweat dampened skin of his face.

He slithered across the threshold, something the size of a sparrow fluttering in his chest, his feet gliding over the carpet without sound. It almost felt like he was floating, some angel of death hovering toward his victims, teeth all exposed in a sick smile.

He brought a hand to his face to check that. The fingers poked at his lips, swabbed at his teeth. Yes. Yes, he was smiling. It felt almost evil somehow, and maybe it was. He was excited. He wanted to hurt them.

His hand retreated, returning to its place on the shotgun, ready to rack it, the other ready to squeeze the trigger. He pressed his elbow against his belly to feel the bulk there, ensuring the handgun was still stuffed in his hoodie pocket. Good. He did the same with the opposite elbow to feel the rounded bits and ensure the shells were in the other pocket. Indeed.

His glide proceeded into the room, the silence around him changing as he moved into the open. Even with seemingly no noise, he could differentiate the sound of the open office versus that of the closet.

He took another step, however, and there was sound. Air puffed in front of him, the slow respiration of someone deep asleep. It was hard to tell how far away it was. He thought it sounded louder and more detailed than it should, exaggerated after so long in the quiet.

Again his hand left the shotgun, fumbled under the zippered flap of his hoodie to the inside pocket. Something about the size and shape of a cigar found his fingers there, and he pulled it out. He felt along the plastic tube, realized it was backward and turned it so the fatter end faced away from him. Once more his fingers searched its surface. About three quarters of the handle felt rough to the touch, the smooth quarter was the top, and that led the tip of his thumb to the button.

Click.

Light. Too bright. He squinted his eyes down to the narrowest slits, unintentionally closing them a few times before he could get the squint to stick. First he could only see a dark shape on the floor, and then it came into focus, a sleeping bag the shade he believed to be called pewter with a blurred face sticking out of it. He scanned the rest of the room, finding two similar shapes off to his right by the doorway. None of them moved, so the light hadn’t woken them.

He brought the flashlight to his mouth and clamped it there between his teeth, his hand going back to the gun, which he raised now to ready it. His eyes winked shut a couple more times, and still, the face was too washed out by the light and the blur to see. He concentrated, grimaced, sweat gushing down the sides of his face and onto his neck, and the picture finally came clear.

Damn. There he was. The dirty blond stubble. The haircut somehow shagging down from the top with the sides shaved. The gaunt cheeks that seemed to tint yellow around the mouth.

It was him. The one who had strangled Travis’s mom. What were the chances that he’d be the first one he’d come upon? He didn’t know. It almost seemed a bad omen, some sure sign that he may get some form of revenge, but he wouldn’t survive the encounter. He didn’t care.

He closed one eye to line up his shot, and time slowed down. The gun felt right in his fingers, and he found himself smiling again, beaming out some darkness through his teeth. He wiped his trigger hand on his pants, waited a beat. His breath flowed out of him all slow, and he racked the shotgun. The clickety clack was loud as hell. Shit. The body before him stirred. He didn’t wait for the eyes to open. He pulled the trigger.

The boom throttled his ear drums, made his breath catch in his throat.

The face protruding from the pewter sleeping bag exploded, a cavern of red left in its place. It felt like he stared into the face hole for a long time, locked eyes with the emptiness. It reminded him of watching a butternut squash get blown to bits by an m-80 when he was a kid. But it must have been a fraction of a second that somehow stretched out for a long time, because the spray of bloody bits hit him then like a gigantic warm sneeze. Flecks spattered his nose and cheeks and lips.

He saw something jerk to motion out of the corner of his eye, and then the flashlight fell from his teeth, clattered along the floor and spun under the desk to his right to plunge the room once more into darkness.

Erin

Presto, Pennsylvania

32 days after

Erin cracked one eye, saw that the long gray fingers of dawn were just barely poking through the cracks in the curtains, and closed her eyelid.

So far that was one of the few upsides to the way things were now. No alarm clocks. Even if there were, there was no reason to wake up at a particular time anymore. There was no school bus to catch. No morning bell to beat. No teachers recording tardies in a little notebook.

A sound filled the air then, and Erin’s forehead crinkled as she struggled to identify it. In her half-awake state, the closest she could come was someone slamming raw chickens onto a counter top. The noise cut off just before two bony heels slammed into the small of her back.

“Damn it, Izzy!”

Erin yanked the covers over her head, remembering all too well that you didn’t need an alarm clock when you had an eight-year-old around.

“Sorry,” Izzy said, but Erin didn’t have to see her to hear the smile on her face.

“Also, language. That’s another five bucks for the swear jar.”

“I’ll give you five hundred if you never do that again.”

“I’m hungry.”

“So eat something.”

“All we have is beans.”

Erin sat up, blinked a few times, and let out a long, slow sigh.

She stumbled to the kitchen. The cupboard door opened with a creak. Garbanzo beans, green beans, black beans, dark red kidney beans. She hefted a can of baked beans.